


Time is the Longest Distance Between Two Hearts, Part One

by jagnikjen



Series: Time is the Longest Distance Between Two Hearts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Community: holmestice, Consensual Infidelity, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Scottish Character, Scottish Historical Setting, Time Travel, intent to slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:33:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5495612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jagnikjen/pseuds/jagnikjen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade is a closet Scottish history buff and has traveled to Scotland on his first holiday in several years to participate in war re-enactments. Fascinated by the local standing stones, Greg inspects the stones after an outdoor performance in celebration of Midsummer’s Eve and finds himself hurtled through time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oboetheres](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oboetheres/gifts).



> This was written for oboetheres during the 2015 December Holmestice Exchange. It quickly became apparent that the scope of my vision was far larger than the time frame I had to write my gift and turn it in, so I found a logical ending place and determined to continue the saga. I've written on it almost daily since turning it in.
> 
> As I pondered the overall trajectory and considered upcoming plot points and back story, I realized that some minor changes would have to be made. The changes are nothing that impact the overall story if you happened to have read it on the [Holmestic comm](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/) on LiveJournal, but if think you mis-remembered something, that's probably why.
> 
> The eighteen chapters of part one are written and will be posted at a rate of approximately two or three per week. Part two is currently a work in progress, but posting will not begin until part one has been posted in its entirety and then it depends on how far along I am. I don't want to be *that* author who leaves readers hanging, so...

Greg’s knees complained about the hardness of the floor as he knelt over the length of wool. He folded the clean length of subdued blue plaid slowly and carefully as he’d been taught. He slid the thick brown leather belt underneath the fabric and then lay down, positioning his waist where the belt was situated and making sure the cotton shirttails of his off-white Jacobite shirt were smooth beneath his arse and over his thighs. He folded the sides of the wool over his body, then fastened the belt. The snap crackle of his joints sounded loud in the room when he stood, and he shook his head. He was getting too old for this. But battle re-enactments were one thing he’d always wanted to try, and he’d saved and planned for this holiday for three years. He was going to enjoy it or die trying.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror and inspected his reflection. He’d left the laces at the neck of the shirt loose, and a cluster of charcoal-colored chest hairs peeked from the vee. The kilt brushed his kneecaps in the front and draped a little lower in the back. Thick cream-colored knit socks peeked over the tops of brown leather high boots. While he’d purchased a kilt outfit for the battle re-enactments, he hadn’t seen the point in investing in ghillies, and going to tonight’s event had been a last minute decision.

The big question, though…pants or no pants?

The hell with it. No pants. Tonight’s performance was more for tourists than battle re-enactors. There would be no mock battles with the accompanying worries about protecting the family jewels. The re-enactment organization assured the participants that many true Scots went regimental or, in contemporary terms, commando. He’d never done it, but a sense of adventure had come over him this trip, so he stripped off his boxer briefs and tossed them at his carryall. He pulled cash and some identification from his wallet and tucked them into his sporran and clasped that on as well.

An hour later, after a quick meal in the hotel dining room, Greg rode the event bus to the standing stones. He answered a couple of emails from the Yard via his mobile before powering it off and stuffing it in his sporran. The ten-minute walk from the road to the site allowed him to stretch his legs and get his blood pumping. The jiggle of his cock and bollocks felt odd. Good but odd. With as thick as the kilt fabric was and the pressure of his sporran, there was no way for anyone to know he was sans pants, but a sense of titillation, along with the tiniest bit of self-consciousness, underlined his anticipation. That and the soft scratch of the wool against his flesh. God, he could just find an out-of-the way spot and wank if he wanted to. His cock twitched and his stomach did a little jig at the thought. He swallowed the nervous laugh that bubbled in his throat. He was a detective inspector with New Scotland Yard, for Pete’s sake. If he got caught doing anything of the sort, he’d be busted down to special co  
nstable. As alluring as the prospect of a semi-public wank might sound, he’d best steer clear of any temptations.

The air was cool and the sun sank quickly. Lush green grass covered the rolling hills that undulated to the horizon, and the bright lights of Dumfries shone to the south. Small groups of people, some in contemporary street clothes and some in historical costume, sat here and there on the grass. Torches disguised like old fashioned lanterns dotted the area, offering enough light to see by as the sun disappeared and creating a romantic atmosphere.

An image of Peter flitted through his mind, but Greg shook his head and dislodged it. They’d broken up and it was for the best. He swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat and sighed. Why could he never find someone who understood the demands of his job? He liked being a police officer and he was damned good at it. A job he was on holiday from at the moment. Right. On holiday. He was here to have a good time and if he met an interesting and interested party, he’d consider a fling. Of course he would. If he didn’t, no worries. His love of Scottish history had brought him here, and being kilted up and part of something outside of his everyday existence was a welcome and exciting treat.

“Oh—” he murmured as a cool breeze swirled around his legs and upwards, reminding him unnecessarily that he wore nothing beneath his kilt. Glancing around, he found a suitable spot to sit. He crossed his ankles before dropping to sit cross-legged with the folds of wool beneath his arse and covering his bits.

Some ethereal-sounding music drifted through the air. Flutes, maybe? He thought he recognized a hint of some low-toned drums too. Movement drew his gaze to the standing stones. Women of all shapes and sizes and wearing gauzy gowns in pastel colors appeared. Loose flowing skirts swung and flowed as the women moved. Small green lights flittered around the dancers and wafted out into the audience. However they’d accomplished that, he was impressed.

Greg’s pulse thrummed with the underlying rhythm of the music. The women twirled and jumped in and around one another in a circling pattern amongst the stones. Chanting filled the air and his scalp prickled at the haunting tones.

Suddenly, the world around him went quiet and the women disappeared into the copse of trees on the other side of the standing stones. He sat, astounded, for a moment. Applause filled the void and he blinked, coming back into awareness of his surroundings. He lay back on the cool grass, stretching his legs and allowing the blood to flow back towards his feet. Overhead, the sheer number of stars took his breath away. It’d been ages since he’d been someplace he could see anything other than the brightest stars. The sky was a dark velvet blue and he could almost feel the softness on his fingertips. The air smelled clean and felt crisp in his airways and lungs.

He wanted to check out the stones, though, before the bus left for town, so he rolled to his feet and walked that direction.

Nine stones stood in an irregular ten-meter circle. They ranged from three to five meters in height. Most were no bigger in diameter than a person, some fat, some skinny. The surfaces were smooth from centuries of Highland winds and rains. He ran his fingers along the rock and jerked his hand back in surprise before flattening his palms against one. It reminded him of the bricks of a fireplace with a banked fire keeping them warm. His gazed flicked to each of the stones in turn. Were the rest warm as well? He moved from stone to stone, running his hands along the sides.

A high-pitched keening noise assaulted his ears as he approached the largest stone, and he covered his ears with his hands. A rush of wind swirled around the stone, ruffling his kilt, pushing him close. His stomach swooped and he tried to catch his breath. What the hell was happening? He tried to step back, step away, but the force had grown too strong. He put his hands out as he was propelled forward. The sound deepened to that of a freight train barreling down on him. His vision narrowed, and the world grew darker and darker.

_Oh God oh God oh God._

Pressure surrounded him and cut off the scream clawing at his throat. Air whirled around him from every direction and launched him into a swirling vortex of wind and warmth and moisture. He could see nothing but dark shadows rushing past him for long moments.

Then everything went quiet and black and blank as he passed out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laird Mycroft Holmes deals with his children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE THANKS to [recentlyfolded](http://recentlyfolded.livejournal.com/) from LiveJournal for the beta of all eighteen chapters. Her comments and observations pushed me in a good way and this fic is infinitely better for her help.

Laird Mycroft Holmes looked out over his holdings from the window of his private study on the third floor of his castle. Fields were green or golden as far as his eye could see. The fall harvests looked to be abundant. The castle was in good repair. His tenants all seemed in good health and good spirits.

Good, life was all…good.

The sun was almost gone and dark clouds billowed across the distant peaks in the western sky. Lightning flashed brightly in the roiling mass of blackness.

Mycroft turned from the window. “Hugh,” he called loudly.

Several moments later, his steward, Hugh, tall and broad and with the naturally pale complexion of a Highland Scot, appeared from the small antechamber that served as his office. “My laird?”

“There’s a violent storm headed this direction. Send riders to alert the villages and get everything under cover.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Papa, Papa!” 

Mycroft couldn’t help the smile as Owen and Rory tore into his office. His twin five-year-old whirling dervishes had as much energy as the incoming storm, but they were two of the lights of his life. Ginger-headed Rory leaped and Mycroft caught him easily. With a quick arm maneuver, he flipped Rory over his shoulder and around his waist before settling the boy back to his feet.

“One of these days, you’re going to drop him on his head,” said Anthea as she followed at a more sedate pace. Eight-month-old Kenna bounced on her mother’s left arm and attempted to stand on her mother’s hip. Owen, who sported the dark hair and eyes of his mother, clutched the folds of Mycroft’s kilt. He wasn’t quite the thrill-seeker his brother was. Mycroft picked him up for a hug and kiss and took a seat in the chair next to the window. The children’s nurse, Mistress Bruis, waited at the door.

Mycroft looked at the boys, now standing before him, both fidgeting. Rory locked and unlocked his knees in an alternating rhythm, while both of Owen’s hands plucked at the legs of his trews.

“Did you boys behave today?”

“Aye,” said Rory.

“I was good, but Ree spilt his milk,” said Owen.

“I see,” said Mycroft. “And was the milk spilt on purpose or was it accidental?”

“It was a accident, Papa. I was trying to get the cup, but I knocked it over instead.” Rory wore a worried expression and could barely meet Mycroft’s gaze.

“Did you help Mistress Phennel clean it up?”

Rory nodded.

Mycroft looked to Anthea who confirmed their son’s response. “Accidents are just that, so I don’t think we can hold it against Rory, do you, Owen?”

“No, sir.” 

“As for you…”

Owen heaved a heavy sigh.

“…what have I told you about trying to get your brother into trouble?”

A sheen of moisture rose up in Owen’s brown eyes and his lower lip trembled. “A man has got to be able to count on his brother, sir.”

Mycroft sighed. “That’s right. What do you think a fitting consequence ought to be, Rory?”

Rory regarded his brother and then turned large blue eyes back to Mycroft. “An apology, sir.”

“Nothing else?” Mycroft asked. “You are the wronged party.”

“No, sir.”

“Very good then.” He looked at Owen and raised his eyebrow.

Owen turned to Rory and took his brother’s hands. “I’m sorry I tried to get you into trouble, Ree.”

“Thank you, Wen. I forgive you.” Owen threw his arms around his brother’s neck and hugged him, leaving Rory to cling to Owen’s shirt. 

“Rory, go with Nurse and prepare for bed.”

Rory disengaged himself from Owen’s embrace and looked at his father. “What abou—” 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow again.

“Yes, sir.” Rory walked toward the nurse, glancing back every few steps.

Once Mistress Bruis and Rory were out of sight and out of earshot, Mycroft said, “Owen, you will do Rory’s chores as well as your own tomorrow.”

Owen hung his head, dark curls, much like his Uncle Sherlock’s, hiding his face. “Yes, sir.”

“Quite. Now catch up with Nurse and Rory.”

Mycroft’s younger son took off, and he and Anthea followed his progress by the sound of boots on the stone flooring.

Anthea pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead and settled Kenna onto his lap. “You’re a good father, Mycroft Holmes.”

He looked into the smiling round face of his infant daughter. She had Anthea’s brown eyes, but the wisps of her thin hair glowed orangish in the light cast by the roaring fire in the huge hearth. Funny that each of the twins was a duplicate of one of their parents while Kenna was a combination. Tiny fingers grasped the coarse hairs on his face and saliva dribbled from the corners of her laughing little mouth. “Pop. Pop,” she burbled.

Mycroft smiled. “I do try.” His own father had been stern and harsh. His father’s manner had alienated both him and Sherlock. Sadly, as the first born, Mycroft couldn’t run away as Sherlock had done so many times. Mycroft had sworn to himself that if he ever had children, he wouldn’t go down that same path. Rory didn’t have the same gentle sensibilities that Mycroft, Sherlock, and Owen shared and could have borne a stricter hand.

Kenna seemed a happy baby and hadn’t quite shown the way of her personality. Time would tell.

The nurse re-appeared in the doorway. “The boys are a-bed, my lord. Shall I whisk your wee lassie off as well?”

“Thank you, Mistress Bruis.”

The stout woman bustled forward and curtsied as Mycroft handed his daughter over.

He rose and took his wife’s hand, kissing the soft back of it. She was lovely with dark brown eyes, soft shiny brown curls, and a figure that many admiring looks assured him was enticing to men. Most men. But not to him.

Betrothed upon Anthea’s birth, they’d become allies and close companions as she reached marriageable age. That aspect of their relationship had served them well over the years. He loved her, he truly did. She was his chatelaine, the mother of his children, his best friend and his most trusted confidant. But he wished for more in a marriage. He wished his feelings were more than just duty—a duty he gladly undertook, but a duty nonetheless.

“I have some clan accounts to discuss with Hugh,” he said with a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be but an hour.”

~*~

Mycroft climbed the narrow stairwell to the fifth and top floor of Bassendean. His modest castle misled those who wished him ill will or harm to underestimate his resources and resulting ability to persevere. 

A small fire crackled and flickered on the hearth of his bedchamber, throwing long shadows across the walls. There was just enough light for him to see that Anthea had decided to share his bed this night. He was glad for it. The impending storm had him on edge. The trees were already thrashing about in the howling winds, and the younger trees were bent almost to the ground with the force of them. Eerie whistles shrieked through the halls of the castle and under the doors, making him shiver in disquiet. The brunt of the storm hadn’t even reached them yet.

Slipping into the small room between his and Anthea’s sleeping chambers, he stripped down to his braies and returned to the cavernous laird’s chamber and climbed into bed. He stretched out in the cool bedding, but the warmth of Anthea’s form drew him towards her. His movements caused her to stir.

“Mycroft,” she murmured in a rough, sleepy voice. 

“I’m here, cridhe, go back to sleep.”

She snuggled into his side and released a deep breath. The feel of her, the scent of her, it was almost enough to rouse his libido. They hadn’t been intimate since Kenna’s conception and self-pleasure only went so far. He missed the intimate touch of another human being. She drifted back to sleep and he closed his eyes, swallowing against the melancholy that lodged like a stone in his throat and threatened to choke him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Story Notes:**  
>  ‘cridhe’=‘heart’


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad hailstorm hits Laird Holmes' castle. Mycroft finds comfort with his wife.
> 
> This is that chapter that gives part one its rating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaelic compiled from these websites:  
> http://www.faclair.com/  
> http://www.omniglot.com/language/phrases/gaelic.php  
> https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/Appendix:Glossary_of_Scottish_slang_and_jargon  
> Any errors are completely my own mis-interpretation of the texts.
> 
> Names came from: http://www.namenerds.com/scottish/gaelicdude.html
> 
> The title is a mangled version of a Tennessee Williams quote.
> 
> Yes, it’s a shameful theft of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander premise. *sorrynotsorry*

Mycroft sat straight up in bed. His heart thumped so hard and fast that he gasped to catch his breath. A roaring surrounded the castle. Though the stones were well over nine inches thick, they vibrated under the onslaught. His bedchamber was on the top floor of the tower and receiving the brunt of the barrage. His hands trembled and his stomach clenched. _Holy Mary, mother of God, what was that noise?_

He blinked in the pitch blackness, seeing nothing, not even a glow of embers on the hearth. He took a measured breath and then another and another until the uneven gallop of his heartbeat slowed to a steady canter. Until he could think.

What on earth would cause such thundering? He couldn’t remember ever experienc— No, wait.

_Hail._

His breath left him in a whoosh and his stomach clenched for a wholly different reason. He scrambled from bed and rushed to a window. He pulled back the tapestry and threw open the shutter. The force of the wind, as well as the deafening howl, forced him back a step. Icy rain lashed at his skin and he shivered despite it being Midsummer.

“Mycroft, what is it?” asked Anthea from the bed, her voice laced with worry.

“Hail.” He heard the dread in his own voice.

Something pelted him in the chest. Several somethings, and he knelt to feel around on the floor. It was too dark to see, but he felt the small roundish objects easily enough. Hailstones the size of his back teeth. They immediately started melting in his hand. _Dear God—the crops._ His stomach sank to his feet. _Lord have mercy on us all._

A hand touched his arm just as a flash of lightning burst across the sky so nearby it blinded him for a moment. He flinched in surprise.

Anthea cried out as well. “My apologies, Mycroft. Are you all right?”

He pulled her close, receiving comfort as much as offering it. “I don’t know. This hail, the stones, they’re very large. The crops are going to sustain damage,” he said and sighed. “I had a feeling the storm was going to be bad. I just didn’t know it was going to be this devastating.”

“You did what you could. Surely no one would remain outside after your warning. We’ll deal with whatever happens. We always do.” She tugged at his arm. “Come back to bed, there’s nothing more we can do until it passes.”

“Aye.” Mycroft closed the shutter and settled the tapestry in place before crawling back into bed, still trembling.

Anthea lay close, her head on his shoulder and her fingers brushing through the hairs on his chest. He closed his eyes and listened to the storm rage. Provisions had been set back. They’d survive, but the ferocity of the storm concerned him. Not only would crops be damaged, if not destroyed completely, but even the smallest streams would become dangerous rapids. He knew of a handful of small crofts that sat along two or three normally trickling brooks. With the amount of rain falling, they’d have filled and overflowed their banks quickly enough. He only hoped the rainfall wasn’t heavy enough for any flooding to reach them. He prayed mercy on their kinsmen. Livestock and crops could be replaced—their people could not. 

He didn’t want to contemplate it. He could do nothing right now, nothing until the light of day.

Anthea’s soft hand continued its movements, sweeping back and forth across his chest. His prick twitched. Perhaps he could convince her to allow him a distraction. No, that wasn’t fair.

_She’s your wife._

Anthea pressed a kiss to his neck, brushed a fingertip across his nipple. A spark of need flared in his gut and he bit back a groan. Either she too needed a diversion or she sensed his unrest. She did it again and he hissed.

He took hold of her wrist. “My dear.” His voice was low, practically a growl. “You realize what you’re starting, do you not?”

“Aye, husband.”

“And you’re sure?” Another low growl.

“Let me,” she murmured. He’d allow her to lead and would go no farther.

Mycroft took Anthea’s mouth in a gentle though thorough kiss. His prick hardened and she took him in hand, stroking with a light twist on the downstroke. He closed his own large hand around hers, tightening her grip, and fucked her hand. It wasn’t quite as satisfying as her cunny, but it was better than his own solitary hand. His bollocks tightened and a tingling gathered low in his body. With a last thrust, Mycroft spent himself between them. He lay still for a few moments, catching his breath. “Thank you, my love. And you?”

“Nay, just hold me.”

He spooned around her, her soft hair tickling his nose, and her body soon slackened into slumber. His limbs were loose and relaxed, his libido satiated for the moment, duty performed, biological urges met. He wanted more than that from lovemaking however. He wanted to be desired and cherished. He wanted to be thought worthy and beautiful. He wanted to feel complete.

Mycroft was awake when dawn broke. His head throbbed in dread at what the reckoning of the storm would bring, but there was no avoiding it. As laird, he needed to know what nature had wrought. Villages would send their messengers with accountings of the losses and damages. Hugh would log the information in his ledgers and then a meeting would be held to determine who needed what kind of help. The silver lining was that they had the whole summer to make repairs. Some of the crops could be replanted as well and still have time to come to fruition.

~*~

The day had been a long one. Mistress Phennel had delivered his and Hugh’s meals to the outer bailey as tenants and village leaders came and went throughout the hours.

When the day finally ended, Mycroft trudged up the stairs. The worst of the storm had spent itself directly over the castle. Outlying villages and farms had suffered a good soaking, but none had reported hail. Few of the crops were grown so close to the outer bailey, so overall losses had been minimal. He could scarce believe it. He was thankful, to be sure. Several wooden outbuildings had been demolished by the force of the wind and hailstones, but they had been so old that their destruction mattered little.

The keep was mostly dark, and Mycroft carried a small lantern as he made his way upwards. The children had long since been put to bed and Anthea was more than likely tucked into her own chamber with her prayer book or some sort of needlework. A thin strip of light shone at the base of her door and he knocked.

“Come,” she called and he lifted the latch.

The room glowed golden orange from the dozens of candles flickering in their stands close to her desk. A small fire blazed on the hearth behind her.

Encroaching a mere three steps into her domain, he asked, “Are you well?” Her attentions last night had been more than welcome. Because of her general disinterest in sex, guilt always plagued him after they’d been intimate. Even after close to twenty years of her assurances that tending to his needs did not horrify her, that she was satisfied with their arrangement, and that she was pleased to be of assistance, he still felt as though he were imposing his base needs upon her.

“Mycroft.”

He blinked and sought her gaze. Her tender smile elicited a fierce desire to protect her at all costs. Even from himself if needs be.

“I am fine, husband. Put away those thoughts and go to bed. You look ready to collapse.”

“Aye.” He crossed the room and leaned over to kiss the top of her head.

She tilted her head back and covered his mouth with her own, though the kiss remained chaste.

“What was that for?”

“Because I love you, My.”

“And I love you. Good night, cridhe.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's wife and children take him on a picnic and he has a realization.

Mycroft sat at his desk in his private study on the third floor of the keep. The windows were open to the late afternoon air. Papers ruffled in the easy breeze. Sounds of life floated up to him from the baileys below: the chatter of voices, the snorting of horses, and the cluck of chickens. A dog barked in the distance, followed by the bleating of sheep. The metal clang of the smith’s hammer rang rhythmically. White clouds scudding across the bright blue of the sky captured his gaze, and he struggled to concentrate on the work in front of him.

A sennight had passed since the storm, and cleanup had gone smoothly and quickly. The good Lord had shown mercy, and Mycroft was more than thankful. Confusion, however, had been a constant companion. Why had the damage been minimal? Why had the storm been concentrated over castle? The Lord worked in mysterious ways, and he wasn’t one to question. 

“Praise be to God in heaven. Thank you, Lord, for your tender mercies,” he murmured.

The bulk of the work had taken place and the clan could look forward to the Midsummer’s Eve festivities to be held a few days from now. The men had been hauling wood from destroyed buildings as well as the downed tree limbs and branches in preparation for building the bonfires, and the women had turned to baking and preparing food for the feast. Smells of roasted meat and baking bread had filled the castle from sunup to sundown. He sniffed the air and his stomach grumbled at the rich scents that attested to the Lord’s blessing and benevolence. He would be in search of a meal soon.

“Mycroft, come.”

Mycroft blinked, bringing the window and tapestries back into focus, and looked up to find Anthea standing in the doorway. Prompted by the tone of her voice, he rose immediately and strode toward her. “What is it, cridhe?”

When he reached her, she smiled and took his hand. “Just come.”

His initial anxiety dissipated and he allowed himself to be led downstairs and into the courtyard. Rory and Owen squirmed with impatience, lumpy packs on their small backs.

“What’s this?” he asked, looking from Rory to Owen to Anthea.

Anthea took Kenna from Mistress Bruis, who’d been overseeing the waiting.

“It’s a picnic dinner, Papa,” said Rory. “Mama says you’ve been working too hard and that we should do something ‘laxing.”

In a blink, he had a small hand in each one of his and was being tugged toward the open fields. He smiled down at the pair of grins beaming up at him.

“Some relaxation seems like just the thing even though Midsummer’s Eve is only a few evenings hence.”

“We both know you’ll do little relaxing,” scolded Anthea kindly from behind him and the twins. “While everyone else enjoys themselves, you’ll be the laird. Nothing relaxing about pretending to drink or watching others have a good time.”

“You are correct as usual, my dear.” Mycroft tapped the backs of the boys’ hands together in front of himself. “I pray you boys are as blessed in your marriages as I have been in mine.” He had been lucky.

The boys twisted to look back at their mother, matching expressions of bewilderment adorning their faces.

“Why don’t you go find a good spot for the blanket?” Anthea suggested, and they took off over the small rise ahead of them like dogs after a rabbit.

Mycroft lifted Kenna from Anthea’s arms and jiggled her in the air. Happy baby shrieks permeated the air and a deep sense of contentment filled him. He had a beautiful, loving, understanding wife by his side; strong, healthy children to carry on the family name and legacy; and prosperous lands. What more could a man ask for?

_Passion._

The thought came unbidden and he swallowed a sigh. He lived a life many would envy. He was content. Mostly. Men finding pleasure or even love with other men was considered unnatural and had been linked to Satanism. Mycroft had no wish to be branded as any sort of deviant and suffer the consequences. Few knew of his sexual leanings. Anthea did, of course, and he knew of hers. He could count on one hand the number of men he’d been with. Three of his liaisons had happened during his teens and had been considered youthful experimentation. The other two had occurred during the first few years of his marriage and couldn’t be construed as anything other than much-needed release on his part. He loved Anthea, but intimacy with her just didn’t provide the emotional and physical satisfaction he craved. Finding and keeping a lover would be dangerous. He’d never yet met a man worth the risk.

He and Anthea crested the hill. The boys’ packs lay carelessly discarded on the grass next to a shallow stream. Shrieks of laughter carried on the gentle, sweet-smelling breeze. The crack and snap of twigs indicated that the boys had crossed the stream and were tramping around a small coppice.

The sun had begun its descent, but wouldn’t drop below the jagged edges of the distant peaks for at least an hour. It bathed the land in a soft golden light

Anthea unwrapped her plaid and settled it on the grass before sitting on one corner. Mycroft set Kenna in the center of it before joining them. He and Anthea reminisced about their childhoods and laughed in easy companionship.

Eventually, Mycroft’s stomach grumbled and he opened the packs. He pulled dried venison, bannocks, and cheese from one, along with a flask of wine. In the other were grapes and apples and a skin of water. A meal fit for a king. Mycroft snorted softly to himself. Fit for a laird in any case. He and Anthea ate their fill and fed Kenna small bits as well. The boys were in their element and food would hold little interest for them. The sun finally dropped out of view, although golden shards of light fanned out above the mountain tops. In the evening sky, pale orange flowed into raspberry pink which morphed into rich blue as nighttime tiptoed ever closer. The world was wrapped in the muted hazy blanket of twilight.

Owen dashed out of the coppice and ran to the top of the next low rise and stopped short. Not expecting Owen’s halt, Rory plowed into him and they both tumbled over and out of sight.

“Mama, Mama, Papa, come look!” called one of them. It sounded like Rory. Their heads became visible when they retook their feet.

Mycroft exchanged a puzzled look with Anthea as they both rose. He scooped up Kenna and helped Anthea cross the stream without getting her skirts too wet. Hand in hand, they traversed the grass and lengthened their strides to climb the small hill. Upon reaching the crest, they came to an immediate stop.

The meadow sloped away from them, the grass a bright velvety green. The valley was filled with thousands if not millions of small insects that hovered, flittered, and twinkled in the misty gloaming.

Mycroft’s breath caught, a smile crept across his face, and he took a step back.

“It’s beautiful,” Anthea murmured, awe coloring her voice. “I’ve never seen anything like that. What are they?”

He and Anthea shared a glance before they returned their gazes to the sight in front of them.

It _was_ quite extraordinary. He’d seen the phenomenon once as boy, but never since. Whether because he’d missed it or it just hadn’t happened, he didn’t know. “It’s the…it’s the harbinger,” he said, his voice going quiet as he realized. _Oh. Oh, goodness._ Mycroft slapped a hand to his forehead and looked at Anthea. “It’s been so long, I failed to recognize the signs.”

“Signs?”

“The hailstorm and now this. We’re going to have a Midsummer visitor.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg awakens to find himself lost and alone and without any way to call for help.

Greg awoke and immediately clamped his eyes shut against the blinding sun. A searing arc of pain bolted through his head. He groaned and his stomach roiled in response. His body curled into a fetal position of its own accord, and he covered his head with his arms, swallowing back the sick that threatened. He breathed in and out through his nose. The air was crisp and fresh, and the pain lessened by degrees. 

He took virtual stock of his body. Feet, ankles, and legs all felt fine. Waist, abdomen, chest, also fine. Hands, arms, shoulders, no pain there either. All right then. Nothing seemed to be broken or bleeding. At least not that he could tell while hunched in a ball. Slowly, he straightened his body and rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes behind the shield of his arm and when nothing hurt worse, he let out the breath he’d held and uncovered his face. His head pulsed dully, but it was bearable. He swallowed again, trying to flush the sour taste from his mouth. What he wouldn’t give for a bottle of water.

What on earth had happened? One minute, he’d been exploring the standing stones; the next, he was— He shuffled up onto his elbows and looked around. Wait. Where were the standing stones? He craned his neck to look behind him. No road in that direction either. _The hell?_

He laid back down for a moment and tried to recall something, anything. Nothing more than touching the standing stones and then waking up here presented itself. Did he have amnesia? No. Name and personal details all came to mind. Queen Elizabeth was on the throne and David Cameron in Number 10 Downing Street. Okay, so he’d just call for help, get back to the hotel, and figure things out from there.

He patted his waist and encountered nothing but wool. His stomach lurched. Oh, no. Please don’t let him have lost his mobile.

He ran an extended arm along the grass. A soft “yes” escaped him when his fingers touched something furry. He felt for the clasp and frowned when there was nothing but open pouch. Odd. Where was the metal closure? Where was the chain that it had hung from around his waist? This day was getting better and better. He reached inside and found nothing. “Dammit,” he exclaimed and flinched at the throb the sound of his voice elicited.

This couldn’t be happening. Considering what he remembered, he didn’t think he’d been assaulted and robbed, despite the fact that his mobile, cash, and identification were missing.

Without his mobile, he couldn’t call for help, which meant he’d have to go in search of it himself. Greg clambered to his feet and another stab of pain lanced his head. He sucked in a sharp breath and doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees to keep from hitting the ground once again. He drew deep breaths until the dizziness passed, and he straightened once again.

Clear blue sky stretched on for endless miles, as did the rolling green hills. He tried to get his bearings based on what he remembered from arriving at the standing stones. Had that been moments ago? Had it been last night? God, he didn’t even know how long he’d been passed out. 

Well, he couldn’t have gone too far, could he have? Surely the stones or the road were close, yeah?

He pivoted in place, looking for anything familiar. But there was nothing. No standing stones, no road, no houses. What the hell? His breath came in short, shallow pants and his pulse raced. He suddenly felt cold and he couldn’t catch his breath. _Breathe, Greg, breathe._

He sucked in several deep breaths and felt better. A bit, anyway. His heart rate returned to some semblance of normal and he looked around again. Really looked. Slowly looked. There were no power poles and no mobile towers. _Bloody hell!_ He wasn’t even in that remote-ish of a part of Scotland. He’d had mobile reception during the bus ride to the standing stones. He knew of no place in all of the U.K. where power poles couldn’t be seen in the distance at least. Where on earth was he?

No answers came to him in the silence. The universe was apparently keeping her secrets. Well, he was a detective inspector for New Scotland Yard. He could figure this out on his own, right?

Right.

The only thing Greg knew for sure was that he needed water. He was vaguely certain there were more than a few hours of daylight left, though how many more he couldn’t determine. He surveyed his surroundings. Sheesh—he knew nothing of survival training. He should have paid more attention to those American survival shows he occasionally watched.

He inhaled and exhaled a deep breath. All right—down. He would go downhill. The higher he went, the colder it would become once darkness caught up with him. His bits shrank a little at the thought and he questioned his decision to go commando for the first time. He hoped he’d find a stream or a road. Either would be welcome. He glanced up at the sun. Based on it’s position, he thought it likely that downhill was also south.

_A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step._

Of course, London was roughly 350 miles south, so he was slightly ahead of the journey. With a sigh, he took a step, then another, and another, his head throbbing mildly in sync with his steps.

His knees started griping almost immediately, but Greg kept walking until his lungs began complaining. He stumbled the last few meters to a large boulder and collapsed onto it. It held the warmth of the sun and warmed the backs of his thighs and his arse. He lifted his kilt and sat directly on the stone. An inadvertent “ahhh” escaped him. The cramps in his knees eased and his breathing quieted. The sounds of nature finally had a chance to penetrate his mind. The distant rushing of the wind. Twittering birds. Whirring insects. And—he grinned in recognition—flowing water. Closing his eyes, he listened intently. The sound came from the left. He rose and headed in the direction of the sun. Sure enough, he found a small stream within a few minutes and fell to his knees. The icy water soothed his parched throat and he drank greedily. He scooped handfuls of it over his head and scrubbed his hair, face, and neck. A chill shivered through him, but he felt refreshed, if only slightly.

He sat up with a gasp. What had he done? That water could be contaminated with God-knows-what and he’d just slurped pints of it.

_Easy, skippy._ He shook his head. Any water was better than no water at this point. That much he knew. He could be treated later if he caught something. Of course, his immune system was pretty strong considering the things he’d been exposed to at various crime scenes. He snorted. Or in Sherlock’s flat. Yeah, all right then. He probably didn’t have anything to worry about.

Too bad he didn’t have some sort of container, but he supposed he’d follow the stream for a bit and see where it led him. He leant over for another long draught, found a spot to take a piss—not in the stream—and set off again.

The sun had been slightly past its zenith when he’d started out and now it looked as if it was more than halfway to evening. His stomach had started grumbling some time ago, but he had no idea what was safe to eat. Without even the most rudimentary of tools, he couldn’t catch or kill anything anyway, much less cook it. Of course, he hadn’t seen anything _to_ catch or kill.

Well, shoot. He settled his hands on his hips and looked around.

A thin trail of smoke caught his eye and his heart leapt and his pulse jumped. Thank God. A house at least. And food. And people. A way to get home.

He took off at a painful jog, keeping the line of smoke dead ahead. Eventually, he caught sight of a chimney and a bit of thatched roof.

A scream rent the air, then a deeper yell. The smoke thickened and blackened as flames ate up the thatch.

_Bloody fucking hell._

Greg forced his aching knees into a run.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg to the rescue, but no...taken captive instead. Now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> butty= at its most basic, a sandwich

Greg tore through the rickety gates and into the small yard of the burning cottage, gasping for breath and with his head resounding like a gong. There was no time to worry about himself, however. He swallowed back the urge to puke and swiped his arm across his forehead.

Several men wearing tattered and dirty clothing held back another man and a teen-aged boy, both struggling to get free—likely the owner of the cottage and his son. A woman and a pair of ragamuffin children huddled under a tree. The children clung to each other, crying, and the woman just looked stricken as she watched her home burn.

The crackling roar of the flames as they consumed the thatch made Greg’s heart hurt and his stomach clench. 

The men laughed. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” Greg yelled and charged them. Pain bloomed along his jaw and through his head, and his world went black once more.

When he awoke, he was sat against a log, wrists and ankles bound with a rough rope. Heat from a fire warmed his front, although his back felt a bit cool. The sun was gone and the sky was inky. A stiff breeze ruffled across his head and caressed his skin. Burning wood and roasting meat assaulted his sense of smell. Both the scent of food and his extreme hunger made him a bit queasy.

Three faces on the other side of the fire glowed orange. They were different faces than the ones that had knocked him out. Their clothing was clean and similar to each other’s in appearance. He wasn’t sure if being in the custody of these new men was a good thing or a bad thing. Were they soldiers of some sort? And for what side of the ‘fight’?

One of the men rose and came toward Greg, a burly bloke with true red hair, if the orange halo created by the fire was any indication. He held out a skin of liquid. Greg had just enough slack in his restraints that he could hold the skin and remove the stopper. He took a careful sip. It was some sort of ale, though nothing like the stuff he’d tried at the pub. He took another swig before corking the container and handing it back to the man. “Thanks.”

The man nodded.

“You understand English?” 

“Aye.”

Thank God. He could get some answers. Setting a house on fire seemed like a like an odd thing to include during battle re-enactments. If it was part of the whole program, then why had he been the only one there?

But first things first. He held up his bound wrists. “I’m a detective inspector with the Met.” At the bloke’s frown, he added, “The police force. In London.” Still no comprehension. “Is this really necessary?”

“Aye.”

“Why? I realize this is all part of the re-enactments, which I didn’t know had started, by the way, but I’m lost. I’m not supposed to be a part of this one. I just want to get back to Dumfries.”

The man raised a red eyebrow. “Dumfries?”

“Yeah, you know, home base for the re-enactments.”

The man shook his head, a furrow appearing on his wide forehead. “I nay ken yer words.”

Greg’s heart rate kicked up a notch. These guys were taking their war games a bit too far. Of course, he was at a distinct disadvantage. “Look—” He held up his hands again, and twirled one of them around. “—I’m not a part of this particular scene. Something’s happened to me. I’m lost. Maybe I could borrow your mobile since mine’s disappeared, to call the hotel or a taxi or something.”

The man looked even more puzzled. “I nay ken yer words.”

Greg ground his teeth together. “But you understand English?” He raised an eyebrow to punctuate his question. 

“Aye.”

“Well, understand this— You have no right hold me, especially if this is just some re-enactment. I demand you release me.” Greg held out his bound limbs again.

The man just stared. He understood only some English apparently. 

“Rest assured I’m going to report you to the re-enactment organization, and I have half a mind to get you up on charges for kidnapping.”

Greg took a deep breath and shook his head. Yeah, he looked and sounded pretty damned police-like sitting on the ground and tied up like a petty criminal. He wouldn’t take himself seriously either. Fucking hell. Greg took another breath and looked up. Back to basics, then. “Where am I?”

The man answered, but his brogue was so thick Greg couldn’t understand what he said. “I’m sorry, can you say it again?”

Slowly and deliberately, the man did so. “Bass-en-dean.”

“Bassendean?”

“Aye.”

“In Scotland, yeah?”

“Aye.”

Well, that was something anyway.

“Can I borrow your mobile?”

“I nay ken mobile.”

“What? You don’t have a mobile?”

“Nay.”

_Christ._ Greg ran a hand over his face. Who was this guy? Had they found the most back-woods native in all of Scotland to run the re-enactment? Make it more authentic? Just his damned luck.

“Food?” the man asked.

It sounded more like _good_ than _food_ , but at least Greg understood. An offer of food seemed neutral enough and aside from tying him up, they hadn’t been hostile. He nodded.

The man returned to the fire. He pulled what looked like a roll from a haversack and tore some meat from the roasting animal. He came back and handed Greg what amounted to a quick and perfunctory butty.

He nodded again in thanks.

Already ravenous, he wasn’t going to question the lack of hygiene or the species of the meat he was about to consume. If his new captors hadn’t keeled over, that was good enough for him. It’d probably been twenty-four hours since he’d last eaten. He’d need sustenance if he wanted to keep his head clear and effect some sort of escape if the opportunity presented itself.

The butty eaten, a full stomach eased most of his woes. The nausea was gone and the pounding in his head had been reduced to nothing more than a low thrum. A good night’s sleep would most likely take care of that, though he doubted any sleep he got tonight would meet that description.

“Will we be heading back to town tonight?” he called over the crackle of the modest fire.

All eyes turned to him. The man who’d spoken to him before frowned. “Town?” _Tune?_ Greg heard.

Greg nodded. “Yes, town. You know, Dumfries?”

“Nay.”

“So we’re not going to town or we’re not going tonight?”

“A-màireach…the laird. We ride in the day to the laird.”

_The laird._ They were taking this re-enactment thing pretty seriously. “The laird?”

“Aye.”

Greg scrubbed a hand down his face, the other hand along for the ride due to his crude handcuffs. He was so damned confused. So Burly Bloke could understand some English, basic English, but he obviously had trouble translating his Gaelic to English. His thick brogue didn’t help matters either. Hopefully, this laird could speak English and would be easier to understand. Greg could get some answers as well as some help. How the hell had this happened to him? “Okay. Tomorrow we’ll see the laird. So we’re sleeping here tonight?”

“Aye.” Burly Bloke rose and approached Greg. He held out a hand and indicated that he wanted Greg to stand. Greg accepted his hand and was tugged to his feet. He’d have made a run for it, but his ankles were bound.

Burly Bloke flipped the top layer of his kilt over his shoulders and gestured that he was going to do the same to Greg. Greg understood that Burly Bloke didn’t want to untie his hands or feet for whatever reason, and he appreciated the warning of his intent; otherwise, they might have had words.

Burly Bloke reached around Greg and carefully separated the layers of Greg’s kilt and draped it over his shoulders.

Greg nodded.

Burly Bloke indicated that Greg should settle back down and catch some shut eye.

If they were taking him to the laird tomorrow, then he might as well quit wasting his breath. He’d definitely be having words with the re-enactment organization when he got back. Nowhere had they disclosed that this was total immersion. Greg had expected to go back to the hotel each night, shower, and sleep in a comfortable bed.

Since that clearly wasn’t happening tonight, he got as comfortable as he could and closed his eyes.

~*~

Greg was roused by the babble of incomprehensible chatter. The sky was a pale blue gray, indicating that the sun hadn’t quite made an appearance. It was early, but there was enough light to see by. He shivered in the chill. The Scots’ horses were saddled and ready to go, and what, by process of elimination, was to be his own mount, a pathetic-looking ass stood munching the grass.

“May I ride properly seated? Not thrown over the back? I won’t try to escape. I really do want to speak with the laird.” And give him a piece of my mind.

Burly Bloke studied him hard before nodding. “Aye,” he said and untied Greg’s ankles and wrists. He retied Greg’s wrists once he was astride. Burly Bloke handed Greg another bread roll and mounted his horse.

Greg lost track of time as they rode, not that he’d had any sense of it to begin with. The sun had crested the horizon and the rays warmed him, thank goodness. He hoped this laird had coffee. He could use a large steaming mug of it with lots of sugar and a dollop of cream. Mmm…he could taste it now.

 

It could have been an hour or it could have been three before a manor house—castle?—came into view, slightly elevated on a hill and circled by a stone wall. Greg could only see the top three stories from this distance. The structure itself looked more like the manor houses he’d seen online, but the whole arrangement, hill, wall, bailey—that configuration indicated castle. Their small group rounded a stand of trees and the road stretched up a small rise and straight into the bailey.

Greg heaved a sigh and felt a bit of the tenseness he’d carried leave his shoulders. Finally. He was going to meet this so-called laird and he was going to get some answers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg finally meets someone in authority and demands answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Dé rud a tha ann?’=’What is it?’  
> ‘Falbh’=’Leave us.’

Another five, ten minutes of riding and they passed through the open wooden gates into a bustling outer bailey. People wore historical costumes that appeared way more authentic than Greg’s own. The earthy scents of farm animals enveloped him. People moved around, intent on whatever business they were about. The clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed in the enclosed space and Greg flinched slightly with each blow until they’d passed by the man’s stall. They were taking this re-enactment thing quite seriously. He scanned the bailey walls and the roof lines. There wasn’t a utility pole or electric wire in sight. Not that he cared right now. He’d been found and that was the most important thing.

His escorts dismounted, and one of them took the horses to a sturdy-looking stable set against the bailey wall. Burly Bloke untied Greg’s wrists and stepped back while he slid off the ass. His knees almost gave out, and his thighs and arse ached from clenching to keep centered on the ass’s back. The bones throbbed from bouncing on the back of the scrawny animal for hours and hours, but he resisted the urge to rub them. He’d kill for a hot shower right about now, though. A young lad took the rope halter and led the animal to the stable as well. He hoped they gave that poor creature some extra oats or whatever. Greg couldn’t have been the easiest load it had ever hauled.

Greg rubbed his wrists where the rough rope had chafed his skin red. Thankfully, Burly Bloke didn’t seem inclined to restrain him again. With a nod and a motion of his hand, he gestured for Greg to follow. They passed through the inner bailey, up another small hill, and into a small fenced courtyard.

The castle was a vertical L. The tower was six stories high with a shallow-pitched roof, and the base of the L was two stories in height, with a more steeply pitched roof. There were likely floors below ground, too, housing the kitchens and laundry.

Burly Bloke led the way into the house through a side door, down a dim narrow stone hallway, and into a well-appointed room.

Half a dozen men stood on one side of a rectangular table and they went silent upon his and Burly Bloke’s entrance. Half a dozen heads swiveled around and half a dozen pair of eyes stared.

“Dé rud a tha ann?” asked a deep voice. It sounded familiar, but because of the Gaelic, Greg couldn’t place it. He fingered the wool of his kilt to hide the sudden trepidation, though for the life of him, he didn’t know why he suddenly felt as if he’d been dragged into the headmaster’s office.

The men parted like the Red Sea, leaving a lone man standing on the other side of the table framed by a huge hearth and dressed to the Highlander nines. Loose white linen shirt, dark green tartan and sash, fancy sporran, and intricate clan brooch. Thick auburn hair flowed from a receding hairline and small loose curls brushed his neck. Mustache and sideburns connected in a curved line from the sides of his nose to his ears. The facial hair extended down his cheeks and curved around and just under the jaw line in a well-tended beard. He was tall and on the skinny side. The laird—for there was no doubt in Greg’s mind that this was the laird—was a handsome man. And even more familiar.

A narrow eyebrow rose when the laird looked at Burly Bloke as if to ask the meaning of the intrusion. Burly Bloke tilted his head in Greg’s direction and the laird’s steely blue gaze landed on him. The laird’s eyes widened and his chest rose and fell. The annoyed expression morphed into stunned surprise.

A jolt of electricity sliced through Greg and his nerve endings tingled. All anxiety fled and outrage took its place.

_Bloody fucking hell._

Greg’s eyes narrowed at the now familiar face. “Mycroft bloody Holmes. I should have known you were behind this. What the hell are you wearing and what the fuck is going on?”

Mycroft’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, eyebrows arching again. True surprise was very hard to elicit in Mycroft, but Greg took little satisfaction in it. Mycroft Holmes’s involvement in anything never boded well.

The other men in the room looked from Greg to Mycroft and then at one another, questioning expressions furrowing their foreheads and eliciting low murmurings. Greg didn’t know if they’d understood him or not.

There was no apparent recognition on Mycroft’s face, however. They’d met often enough and Greg was sure Mycroft had a dossier on him as a result of his association with Sherlock. Why wasn’t Mycroft acknowledging their familiarity?

“Ye be a man,” blurted Mycroft and blanched, obviously knowing the stupidity of his comment but unable to stop the words.

“Brilliant bloody deduction,” Greg snapped.

There was that fish impression again, with plush pink lips that Greg hadn’t ever noticed before. Mainly because Mycroft had never had facial hair to draw attention to them before. _Christ._

What the hell had come over him?

Things were getting more and more strange. Mycroft was acting as if they’d never met. There was that look of confusion again and a slight shake of Mycroft’s head. Well, if anyone had a right to be confused, it was Greg, because Mycroft was supposed to know bloody everything, right?

Greg was suddenly tired of the games or whatever else was going on here. After everything he’d experienced in the last who-knew-how-long, he wanted some answers. “What the hell is going on here?”

With a nod, Mycroft transformed. He stood taller, suddenly looked imposing. Greg felt the shift in the room. And an underpinning of not fear, exactly, but expectation, anticipation, respect filled the silence.

“Falbh.” Mycroft didn’t raise his voice but half an octave and the command emptied the room. A shiver rolled down Greg’s spine at the authoritative tone. That was more like the Mycroft he knew.

While everyone filed out, Greg chanced a glance around. The chamber was large and square and, like the rest of the structure, made out of a pale gray stone. Subdued tapestries lined the walls. A cast iron candelabra hung over the table, fat candles in place but not lit. Standing candelabras stood strategically around the room. Several wall sconces held candles as well.

The last man out closed the door behind him, leaving Greg and Mycroft alone.

Time to get down to brass tacks. “What the hell is going on here, Mycroft? Are you living a double life? Are you on a secret mission? And why am I here?”

“How do ye ken my name?” 

Greg frowned. “What do you mean, how do I know your name? You’re Sherlock’s brother.” Oh, fuck. Maybe it _was_ a secret mission and the room was bugged.

“Ye ken my brother?” The confusion was back.

“Of course I know your brother. He’s the reason I know you.”

Mycroft was silent for several moments, and Greg could see the thoughts whizzing through his brain in the darting back and forth of his eyes. Eventually something seemed to dawn on him and he looked at Greg again. “What year do ye come from?”

Greg raised a brow. What the hell? “What year do I come from? What kind of bloody question is that?”

Mycroft’s lips thinned. “If ye could dispense with the profanities and just answer the question.”

Ah, yes, there was the cool, familiar tone of superiority Greg always associated with Mycroft Holmes. “You bloody well kno—”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “The year, if ye please?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has a hard time believing what Mycroft tells him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sàr=sir  
> Fraingis=French  
> maighstir=mister  
> sasunnach=Saxon/English person

Greg swiped a hand over his face. He needed a shave. He preferred a bit of scruff, but it had grown longer than he liked and it’d started to itch. “It’s twenty fifteen, as you well know.”

Both auburn eyebrows arced this time. “Do I now? And yer name, sàr?”

Greg’s own brows stretched for his hairline. “My name? Christ, we’ve known each other for the better part of ten years, Mycroft. You know my name.”

“Humor me.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No’ in the least.”

He didn’t look like he was kidding or the least bit amused. “It’s Greg. Greg Lestrade.”

“Lestrade. _Fraingis._ How interesting.” Mycroft spoke more to himself than to Greg. He poured himself a cup of wine and waved the carafe. “May I pour ye a drink, Maighstir Lestrade?”

Greg could suddenly use a stiff drink right about now. Mycroft’s questions made no sense. “Yeah, yeah. That’d be good. Thanks.”

Mycroft filled a second cup and pushed it across the highly polished wood surface. “Maighstir Lestra—”

“It’s Greg. Call me Greg,” he directed out of habit. Being called mister made him feel old and he sure as hell didn’t need any help. Not when his whole body ached like he’d played a full match of footy three days in a row. He wanted a shower, a meal, and a comfortable bed in a quiet room.

Mycroft canted his head. “If ye wish. _Greg._ Please have a seat.”

Greg’s jaw dropped and he snapped it shut with an audible click. No matter how often Greg had invited Mycroft to use his Christian name, the man had steadfastly addressed him as detective inspector. Until now. And the mister…what was that?

They both sat, Mycroft directly across the table from Greg. The sturdy chairs were made of the same dark wood as the table. A crest, the Holmes crest he assumed, was carved into the back of each one. A needlepoint above the hearth echoed the carving but in colorful intricate detail.

“What I’m about to tell ye will come as quite a shock and I’m certain ye won’t believe me.”

Greg took a swig of whatever filled his—he studied the object in his hand—the goblet. There was just no other term for the ornately engraved pewter cup he held. It wasn’t like any wine he’d ever tasted either. Not even the good stuff. “You’ve never been the most forthcoming guy.”

Mycroft mouthed the word ‘guy,’ eyebrows dipping this time, then he cleared his throat. “Ye’ve traveled across time to the year of our Lord, fifteen hundred and thirteen.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Bullshit.”

But even as the word exploded from his mouth—and he really did need to curb the cursing—his stomach sank and he went cold all over. What the hell was Mycroft up to?

Mycroft frowned. “I ken it seems fantastical. Traveling across time—”

“Too bloody right. There’s no way. Time travel—that’s sci fi, it’s fantasy. It only happens in books or movies or on the telly.”

“Aside from books, I dinnae ken what any of those things are. I can assure ye, however, that time travel happens, has happened for centuries. My ancestors have kept written records of visitors for two hundred years or there abouts.”

“Why should I even believe you?” Greg tossed up his hands and let them land on the table with a smack. His fingers flexed against the mild sting. “I mean, you could be making all of this up as some sick joke, although it’s my understanding that you usually don’t get your hands dirty. You send your minions to do that sort of thing.

“And setting all this up—a castle, the whole being taken prisoner thing, burning down some cottage—seems like a lot of hoops to jump through just to kidnap me. You could have simply plucked me off the streets of London at any time.”

“I can assure ye, I have no need to kidnap a sasunnach.” His reasonable tone and bland expression had Greg’s hands fisting with the need to punch something. Or someone.

“And the brogue and the Gaelic, you can cut it out.”

“What does ‘cut it out’ mean?” The eyebrow rose again.

“Are you kidding me?”

Mycroft shook his head slowly. “My apologies, I dinnae ken yer turn of phrase.”

Greg jumped to his feet, slapped his hands flat on the table, and leaned toward Mycroft. “Stop. Just stop. Whatever it is you want from me, just tell me. I’ll hear you out. I’ll do what needs to be done. Just stop this charade. Please—just dig out a phone or mobile and I’ll call for a ride.”

Mycroft stood, a mixture of exasperation and compassion now on his face. “I ken ye be confused, but I promise ye that I will do whatever it takes to convince ye.” He waved a hand at the ledgers and parchments at one end of the table and at the desk in the corner, also stacked with rolled parchments and leather-bound books. “I was in the middle of clan business when ye arrived and I must return to it. Please allow me to settle ye into a guest chamber and provide for yer immediate needs. We can speak more later.”

Greg straightened and looked to the ceiling. Everything that had happened to him, all his observations, his current surroundings, flew through his brain at the speed of one of Sherlock’s deductions. He blinked. “I…” He shook his head. Closed his eyes. _Time travel?_ He liked Star Trek as much as the next bloke, but had never considered time travel more than a futuristic concept. He opened his eyes and met Mycroft’s unwavering gaze.

Whatever the man was up to, Greg would figure it out. Right now, however, he was exhausted, aching, and a bit overwhelmed. Certainly not at his best to investigate anything. So he’d accept Mycroft’s _hospitality_ and try to make sense of it all once he’d gotten some rest. He nodded. “All right. Thanks.”

Mycroft came around the table and walked toward the door, gesturing for Greg to head that way as well. “Hugh will show ye to a chamber.”

“You were surprised at my arrival,” Greg said, reaching the door a step behind Mycroft.

“Nay, not at your arrival per se. There were signs. I expected a visitor.”

“You did look surprised though.”

“Aye. As far as I can remember, our visitors have always been women.”

Greg scrubbed a hand across his head. “Then why me?”

“Why indeed?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg still doubts Mycroft's explanation and meets Mycroft's so-called wife and his children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Có leis bìoch=Who are you?  
> Ciamar a tha sibh?=How are you?  
> Càite bheil an taigh beag?=Where’s the toilet?  
> Fònadh chun a' phoileis!=Call the police!

Mycroft pulled the door open and allowed Greg to exit first. The men who’d been in the room earlier stood in groups talking to one another, though they quieted quickly. The foyer or hall or whatever room they were standing in was made of the same stone as the office, though without tapestries. Wall sconces with candles hung on the narrow sections of wall between doorways. Another candelabra hung from the ceiling. A series of tall narrow openings, windows, Greg supposed, allowed shafts of sunlight to stream down the last flight of stairs. A slight breeze stirred the air.

The woman coming down the wide stone staircase caught his attention. Was that—?

“Ah, Anthea, come meet our guest.”

How many people from his real life was Greg going to recognize here in this supposed 1513? The more familiar faces he saw, the fewer reason he had to believe Mycroft. If he’d believed every mad thing he’d seen and heard during his time on the force, he’d never have been promoted past sergeant. Plus Holmeses. The pair of ‘em. Of course, Sherlock only shammed when he was trying to get information. And Greg couldn’t fathom any reason for Mycroft to suggest a scheme as barmy as this, much less participate in it.

Anthea crossed the space and curtsied. 

“Greg Lestrade, this is my lovely lady wife and the mistress of Bassendean, Anthea.”

Greg raised a brow. “Anthea.” Mycroft and Anthea pretending to be married? Could this situation get any more odd or suspicious?

She frowned for a moment, but Mycroft murmured something to her in Gaelic, and her face cleared and she smiled. “Maighstir Lestrade, welcome. I hope yer visit will be a pleasant one. Our Midsummer’s celebrations are tomorrow. We do hope ye’ll enjoy the festivities.”

“Yeah, thanks. Although I really don’t have time for a party. I need to—”

Thundering sounded on the stairs and everyone turned to watch two young boys descending at a rapid rate. They stopped for half a second about two-thirds of the way down and leaped to the bottom. One of them straightened from his landing crouch and raced to Mycroft. The other boy lost his balance upon touchdown and rolled sideways before immediately clambering to his feet and joining the first boy moments later.

The young red-headed boy spoke in rapid Gaelic until he noticed Greg, and his speech came to a sudden halt. “Có leis bìoch?” He looked very much like Mycroft. Oh, man. Just what the world needed—a mini Mycroft.

“Ach, Rory, English, please. Our guest doesn’t speak Gaelic,” said Mycroft. “Greg, our sons, Rory and Owen. Rory, Owen—” He pointed to each boy in turn. The redhead first, then the brown-haired one. “—this is Maighstir Lestrade.”

Greg really didn’t know what to think now. Children who spoke fluent Gaelic as well as English? But whatever the sins of the parents, the children were likely innocent. “Ciamar a tha sibh?” Greg said, recalling a few of his Gaelic lessons.

“Ye do speak our language?” said Anthea with an arch to an eyebrow.

“No, not really.” He shook his head, not wanting to get drawn into a conversation in Gaelic. He’d be lost in five seconds flat. “I learned a few helpful phrases, like _Càite bheil an taigh beag?_ or _Fònadh chun a' phoileis!_ , but that’s all.”

The boys laughed and then Owen frowned.

“What are phoileis?” asked Rory.

“And what’s fònadh chun?” asked Owen.

Greg scoffed. “Oh, come on? Kids your age know what police and phones are…”

Two wide sets of eyes peered up at Greg, both looking a bit taken aback by his outburst.

Okay, he’d give the little ones the benefit of the doubt. “My apologies. Police are a group of people who protect a community and investigate crimes.”

“Oh.”

“And a phone is a…well, it’s a…” How could he explain technology to someone claiming not to have encountered it? Little kids grew up understanding it better than those who’d been alive during its evolution. He still had a hard time grasping some aspects of it himself. The fact that these two had no clue? How did you begin to describe regular telephones, much less mobile phones, to someone who supposedly still relied on fire as illumination? “It’s a communication device.”

Rory’s brow furrowed. “Like a lion? There’s a lion’s head on our—” 

“Don’t ye boys have chores to do?” asked Anthea.

Whew. Greg offered her a nod.

“Aye, Mama.”

“Then go.”

“But—”

“Chores first; explanations later,” said Mycroft.

With that, they scampered away and disappeared through one of the many doorways. A moment later, the dim corridor lit and darkened again as they opened and closed an exterior door. Sounds of voices and animals drifted in and then were cut off.

“How old are they?” Greg couldn’t remember ever seeing Anthea pregnant, but the boys looked so much like her and Mycroft, that they couldn’t have been adopted.

“Five last March.”

“Oh, twins then?” Of course. Not identical in looks, but almost identical in height and size.

“Aye,” said Mycroft. “We also have an infant daughter.”

Greg swallowed. “Mycroft Holmes with a daughter. Never thought I’d live to see the day.” This whole situation was—God he didn’t even know what it was. 

Mycroft frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It’s an expression. It means I’m very surprised.”

“Why would you be surprised?”

 _Because I thought you were gay_ , Greg didn’t say. “Nothing, it’s nothing. Never mind.”

Mycroft’s mouth thinned and Greg knew that Mycroft knew that he hadn’t said what he’d really thought. But it didn’t matter. Not right now anyway.

“Well then, I’ll get back to clan business. We’ll converse more later. If you’ll excuse me.” After a tilt of his head and slight bend at the waist, he re-entered his office and his men followed.

Greg, Anthea, and Hugh remained in the hall. Hugh stood off to the side, hands clasped behind his back.

Anthea was the first to speak.

“I have to confer with Mistress Phennel and Cook. Hugh will show ye to yer chamber and procure ye some fresh clothing. If ye would like to bathe, let him know.” After another curtsy, she turned and made her way through yet another dim corridor.

Hugh bowed and moved toward the stairs. Greg followed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets clean, gets propositioned, then he gets interrogated.

Five flights of stairs later, Greg was grateful to finally follow Hugh into a room. His calves and thighs burned and his knees cried in agony. He was going to get a bloody workout between now and when he returned home. He’d probably burn more calories getting to and from a meal than he’d consume during it. But hell, he’d been meaning to start working out ever since he and Peter broke up. Peter’s cooking had been to die for, him being a sous chef and all, and Greg had always had a hard time saying no to seconds. He patted his stomach. He could definitely stand to lose a few pounds.

Greg wandered around the well-appointed room. Hugh had said he’d return when Greg’s bath was ready—no showers apparently. Greg sighed.

A wardrobe sat to the right of the door and a large four-poster bed stood on the opposite wall. Tapestries lined both walls and sported intricate and—his eyes widened—rather carnal scenes. _Interesting._ The bed was large enough for two grown men to have a good go of things in it. God, if only. He put that thought away. He didn’t plan on being here long enough to worry about needing any sort of release. His hand would do fine if he got truly desperate. In addition to size, the bed also looked extremely comfortable. The events of the last day or two were quickly catching up with him, but he couldn’t afford to give in to exhaustion just yet.

Instead, he rolled under the bed and felt along all the supports. Nothing. The bed was too heavy to pull away from the wall and inspect the back side of the headboard, but there was enough space that he could get an arm back there and feel around. He stood again and was confident the bed was free from listening devices. 

He opened the wardrobe and ran his fingers over every surface and in every nook and cranny he could find. No evidence of wiring or listening devices in it either.

A large fireplace filled the wall that the door opened parallel to. It wasn’t quite as tall as the one in Mycroft’s office, but its mantle was chest high. He inspected the inside of it and felt along the top of mantel, but still nothing raised any red flags.

On the outside wall, another thick tapestry had been rolled up to reveal six narrow windows, each about nine inches wide. Colorful shutters framed each one, and fresh air swirled around the room causing the gauzy fabric that hung between and down the bed posters to flutter in the breeze.

He skimmed the walls with his hands and his eyes, but spotted no indication of conduit or entry holes for cables and wires. The stones sat snug against one another and there was no evidence of tampering, not even behind the tapestries as far as he could see and feel.

He set his hands on his hips with a sigh and scanned the room again. He found the space comfortable, although he remained wary of trusting it.

Knocking on the door startled him and he jumped, his heart lurching. He took a breath and called, “Come in.”

The door swung open to reveal an attractive young housemaid. Though her clothing covered everything, there was no hiding the voluptuousness of her figure. Brown eyes perused him from head to toe. She met his gaze brazenly.

“Bath?” she said and there was no mistaking the silent invitation. If he were interested in women at the moment, he’d be mighty tempted to take her up on her offer. But he wasn’t. Ever since the demise of his marriage, women held little appeal. Peter had been his first relationship since the divorce. Greg hadn’t expected Peter to be the love of his life, but he’d hoped the relationship would have lasted a little longer.

Did he want some sort of grand passion—of course, he did. Who didn’t? But he’d accepted that not everyone found the great love of their life, and that he could still find joy and contentment.

“Sàr?”

He blinked and her pretty features came back into focus.

How well did she understand English and how could he turn her down without hurting her feelings or upsetting her?

“Bath, yes,” he said and followed her. Back down the hard stone stairs, his body jarring with each step no matter how lightly he tried to tread. If his calves could talk, they’d be cussing him out right about now. About halfway down, they turned into a set of stairs he hadn’t seen on his way up. Eventually, they entered a warm steamy kitchen and he followed the young lady into another small room.

Two large wooden tubs—large enough for a grown man—were lined with some sort of waterproof fabric. Metal buckets hung on hooks over the fire and steaming water filled one of the tubs. A pile of toweling sat next to a clean length of a hunter green tartan and a clean shirt. Knit stockings completed the offering. He saw no undergarments of any kind, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. He fingered the clothing. The tartan looked exactly like the one Mycroft had been wearing and he had a sneaking suspicion the clothing was Mycroft’s. Of course, who else’s would they be? Greg would have to find some clothes of his own. On the other hand, he didn’t plan on hanging around long enough to worry about it much. He just wanted to figure out what the hell was going on and then get home.

“Maighstir Lestrade?”

Greg pulled his mind back from its slight detour. “Thanks. I can handle it from here.”

“I get more water?” the young lady suggested.

“No, that’s okay. I’m fine, but thanks.” He nodded, not meeting her gaze for long.

Disappointment erased her smile, but she nodded back and pulled the screen across the doorway when she left.

The steaming water beckoned him, but he did a quick and quiet recon of the room. No pipes and no taps. Okay. He gave up for now.

Greg stripped and stepped into the perfectly heated water. He submerged himself to his neck and a long groan escaped him. Fucking hell, this felt good. His calves and thighs thanked him. His knees practically sang in relief.

Though it had probably only been a day, two at the most, it seemed like a week since he’d last been clean. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and frowned. He needed a shave and soon. He liked the short scruff and from his success rate at pulling, he guessed others preferred shorter as well. He’d be back at the hotel or back home soon, and then he could shave. He’d just have to deal with it until then. A bar of soap sat on a dish on a stool situated between the tubs and he scooped it up and sniffed it. It held a vaguely herbal scent he couldn’t identify, though it wasn’t at all feminine. Not that he cared. He was just glad to be getting clean. After a dunk of his head, he scrubbed his face and hair and then stood to soap up the rest of his body. He submerged to rinse the soap and then soaked until the water turned cold.

“Maighstir Lestrade, Maighstir Lestrade.” Twin voices called from the other side of the screen and Greg grinned. No matter what he thought about his circumstances, he had to admit the twins were cuties.

“I’m dressed,” he said, “you can come in.”

“Mama says it’s time fer dinner and that we’re to fetch ye,” said Owen. Greg thought it was Owen.

Rory pursed his lips. “Is that Papa’s tartan?”

Greg glanced down. “It matches yours, so it must be.”

“Is that yer tartan?” Owen asked, pointing to the tattered pile of blue plaid fabric in the corner.

“No, not really, no.”

“Then why were ye wearin’ it?” asked Rory.

“Because, uh, I borrowed it.” He wasn’t sure they’d understand buying a kilt in a tartan that wasn’t his. And certainly not for the purpose of fighting historical battles.

“Why?” asked Owen.

“I didn’t have one of my own.” Good heavens, was this what it was like to be tag-teamed? Thank God they were only five years old.

“Why no’?”

“I’m not Scottish.”

Owen’s brown eyes widened. “Yer no’?”

Greg chuckled.

“’Course he’s no’, Wen, he’s no’ speaking Gaelic. If he were a Scot, he’d speak Gaelic.”

“Oh. Aye,” Owen said, looking quite serious. “Are ye under Papa’s ‘tection?”

Greg’s amusement died, but what else could he say? “Well, yes, I suppose I am.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t you boys say something about dinner?”

“Uh huh.”

“Aye.”

“Well, I’m pretty hungry. Do you think you can show me where we eat?”

“’Course, Maighstir Lestrade, that’s why we camed.” Each twin took one of his hands and tugged him into motion.

“I thought it was to interrogate me,” Greg said wryly.

“What’s ‘terragate?”

“Let’s eat first, all right?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's hopes are dashed the more Mycroft talks. Except he likes the brogue.

Dinner complete, Mycroft led Greg into the office he’d seen earlier. Greg slammed the door. He been put off long enough and he wanted some damned answers now. Mycroft stop mid-stride and turned around, eyebrows high over wide blue eyes.

“I want to know what’s going on here, and then I want to go home. This holiday has turned into some sort of strange episode of _Quantum Leap_ and I’ve had enough. Get me back to Dumfries and I’ll get the train back to London. And then we’ll never talk about this. _Ever._ ”

Mycroft took breath and his startled expression was replaced with sympathy. “I ken how mad this all seems to ye.”

Greg sighed. There was that brogue again, but he actually liked the sound of it, so he didn’t bother to say anything. If Mycroft wanted to go the effort, then by all means. Greg would enjoy the rolling Rs and the deep accent.

“If I could get ye back to this Dumfries, I would, but I dinna ken what or where it might be.” A look of realization suddenly came over him. “No, wait. I think ye must be referring to Dún Phris. Come.” He crossed the room to the unit of cubbyholes behind his large desk and rummaged through several of the diamond-shaped openings.

Greg followed and stopped at the front side of the desk.

“Tell me about what happened to ye,” Mycroft said, pulling scroll after scroll, reading its label, and putting it back.

“What difference does it make?”

“There might be clues on how to send ye back.”

Greg hung his head for a moment. Why hadn’t he thought to walk himself through the series of events? He’d been lagging half a step behind since being knocked out. Still, he should have been thinking more professionally. He should have his warrant card revoked.

“I went to Dumfries to participate in some historic battle re-enactments—” Mycroft threw him an incredulous look over his shoulder. “—but there was this Midsummer’s Eve thing at some local standing stones I don’t know the name of. I went there first to get into the spirit of things and get my holiday started off right.”

“Ah,” said Mycroft, holding up a parchment. He untied the string and unrolled the scroll. “Continue.”

“Well, I was curious about the stones, so I went to take a look at them. Then I touched one of them and…uh…everything got really loud and dark and then I came to with my head splitting and my cash, ID, and mobile missing.”

“Fascinating.”

“ _Really?_ ” Greg asked, annoyed. His traumatic incident was fascinating?

“My apologies.” Mycroft had the grace to look abashed. “I’ve read the accounts of previous travelers and I dinnae recall any arrival being quite so dramatic. Anything else?”

“Well, the closure on my sporran and the chain it hung on also disappeared. Just gone.”

“I ken ye doubt still, but my guess would be that anything that we dinnae have here in 1513 couldn’t follow ye. Yer mobile device, for example…whatever ‘tis made of, we dinnae have. Yer ‘cash’? What is cash?”

“My paper money. Larger denominations of currency. Carrying a ten pound note is easier than carrying around 10 one-pound coins, yeah?”

“Quite so. We issue written receipts and vouchers and the like, but our currency remains in coin form. What about the sporran? Were yer closures made out of silver or iron?”

The more Mycroft talked, the lower Greg’s stomach sank. _If_ he bought this time travel malarkey, Mycroft’s explanations would make perfect sense. He just…he just couldn’t. Not yet.

“No. Probably some sort of aluminum or chrome or stainless steel.” He shook his head, scratched his nails across it. “I don’t know.”

“I have nay heard of such materials.”

“Great, just great.” Greg sighed and tapped the parchment. “Why’d you get this map out?”

“I wanted to show ye…”

Greg recognized Scotland on the hand-drawn map.

Mycroft pointed to a small castle image close to the coast, north of Berwick-upon-Tweed. “This is Bassendean.” Then he traced an oval pattern with his finger about the size of a golf ball with the castle at one end of the oval. “These are clan lands.” Next he pointed to a spot Greg knew to be where Dumfries was located. Only the notation on the parchment read Dún Phris. “This is Dún Phris—yer Dumfries, aye?”

“Aye—I mean yes.”

Mycroft smiled kindly at Greg’s slip of the tongue. “I ken a circle of stones near there. The trip will take four or five days by horse.”

Greg looked at him wide-eyed and his arse throbbed in horror. “Horse?”

“’Tis the fastest way, I’m afraid.”

“I…I don’t know how to ride.”

“I imagine ye dinnae have much need in yer city then?”

Greg shook his head. “None at all.”

“Corc will assign one of his deputies to work with ye.”

“I…all right. I don’t even know what to say…”

“There’s just one issue. I cannae take ye back right now. The Midsummer’s celebrations begin tomorrow. I need all my warriors here to keep watch and protect the clan. I cannae leave. In four days’ time, we’ll go. I promise.”

Greg nodded reluctantly. What choice did he have? He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t have any money, and he had no way of contacting anyone who might be able to help. If he’d actually traveled back in time, then he certainly couldn’t expect Mycroft to bail on a huge clan event that had probably been weeks or months in the planning.

“Yeah, all right then. It’ll give me a chance to get my riding legs under me.”

Mycroft smiled again. “Aye. And now I suggest ye get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg begins to accept his fate.

A good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast had helped Greg’s attitude tremendously, although his body still ached slightly. He gazed, awestruck, at the sheer number of people and the amount of food and drink. How many supposed members of the Holmes clan had gathered at Bassendean to celebrate Midsummer’s Eve, Greg didn’t know.

The day had started early with incoming clansmen swearing fealty to Mycroft.

Greg still couldn’t figure out why Mycroft would be participating in this whole deception.

 _If it’s really a deception._ Greg could admit that his doubts were being challenged. But time travel? It boggled the mind. Regardless of whether or not he’d actually traveled through time, though, there was this huge event going on for whatever reason.

Sometime around tea time, the swearing of fealty had finally ended and the partying had begun in earnest.

Laughter, chatter, and dancing carried on all around him. In a field outside the outer bailey, a huge bonfire lapped at the sky and was being monitored carefully and tended by several men. Children of all ages raced around the wagons and tents set up in the fields surrounding the bonfire. A group of teen-aged girls performed an intricate dance, not unlike the one he’d seen a few nights ago. Young couples looked for privacy. Women with babies and toddlers stood or sat around talking about whatever it was women talked about. Men, too, gathered in groups, guffawing and back slapping and chugging down mead or ale, both of which were available in abundance.

Inside the inner bailey, long tables were lined up and piled high with everything from cheeses and breads and cakes, to fruits and vegetables, to more kinds of roasted meats than Greg could identify. A bevy of women kept watch, keeping dogs and insects at bay, while families came to fill their trenchers.

Greg had wandered around most of the day, watching all the goings on, nodding and smiling at people. The entire thing appeared completely authentic. For a history buff like himself, this was better than a thirty-part documentary. He hadn’t spotted a single thing that remotely looked as if it belonged in the 21st century. There’d been no slip-ups, no evidence, no nothing. He was going to have to concede that traveling through time provided the best explanation of what he was seeing better than anything else did.

“Halò, Greg,” called Mycroft. “How are ye getting on?”

Greg started, not expecting anyone to talk to him, much less the laird. He’d been inundated by incomprehensible chatter all day and, honestly, he was starting to get a headache. “Can’t understand much. Seems as if most of your people only speak Gaelic.”

“Aye.” They walked a few steps without speaking before Mycroft said, “My official duties as laird have come to an end. I usually just wander around the grounds keeping an eye on things. I don’t have the luxury of getting intoxicated.”

“Ah, shame.” Greg raised his tankard and smiled. Since he couldn’t go anywhere today, he’d figured he might as well get plastered. He’d opted for ale and a pleasant buzz already hummed through him.

“Indeed.” Mycroft returned the smile. As they traversed the outer bailey in ever widening circles, he shared greetings with just about everyone it seemed. The men had sworn fealty and apparently the women also wanted a chance to speak with the laird.

Eventually the sun sank, although the sky remained light. The bonfires roared and crackled and gave off a stifling heat. Folks gravitated out of the baileys and toward the fires, of which there were now three.

“I’d enjoy a conversation focusing on something other than children, crops, weather, and livestock. Would ye care to indulge me?”

“What, um, sure. Where?” Greg’s stomach looped like the London Eye and he had no idea why. No, that was a lie. He’d watched Mycroft interact with his people off and on all day. Laird Mycroft was nothing like the British Government. He’d been benevolent and fair, though a bit like a distant uncle. A few issues seemed to have required discipline, but nothing required punishment, which was usually swift and harsh at this point in history. Much of a laird’s continuing power depended on his ability to dispense justice, from the smallest disputes to the most grievous offense. However, the rumble of Mycroft’s voice speaking Gaelic had done funny things to Greg’s insides and he’d looked quite dashing in his formal dress. Now this invitation for conversation. Greg would be wise to not read more into it than was meant. There was no reason to, other than an instinct. Plus, the man was married, and Greg had had his fill of adultery.

“Wander out the main gates. When you reach the fork in the road, take the left path until you reach a jumble of boulders. There ought to be enough light to get ye there.”

“What about you?”

Mycroft smiled. “I’ll find ye. Go now. Oh, and bow just a little before ye go. We’re being watched.”

Greg bent at the waist just slightly and inclined his head. “Laird Holmes.”

Mycroft tilted his head and turned toward the inner bailey and the castle.

~*~

Mycroft strode through the hall and down to the kitchens, his blood babbling through his veins like a cheerful little brook. As expected, the day had been long and boring. Fealty offerings were part and parcel of clan life, but they were tedious.

Thoughts of his guest had floated around the back of his mind all day, teasing him with all the knowledge to be learned. They’d never had a visitor from so far in the future, and he couldn’t wait to question Greg on any number of topics.

Cook didn’t look surprised to see him; she smiled and nodded but said nothing. He slipped into the bathing room and removed all accoutrements, leaving him in nothing but shirt, kilt, and sword. Back in the kitchen, he gathered up an assortment of foodstuffs and bundled them into a square cloth. He pulled a blanket from the linens room and exited the outer door of the kitchens.

The heady scent of burning wood filled the air, carried over the castle by the slight breeze. The sounds of the continuing merriment floated across the distance as well.

The moon hung low in the eastern sky, although the sky would remain in its state of lightness for a while longer. He didn’t need much light to find his way however. He knew the lands immediately surrounding the castle intimately. When he had trouble sleeping, he would walk. When he had clan matters to consider, he would walk. When he was lonely, he would walk. He walked in all kinds of weather and at all times of the day or night. He always knew where he was by a quick study of the landscape.

Out here in the open spaces, he could admit that it wasn’t only Greg’s knowledge of the future that called to him. It was the man himself. Virile, comely, and yet wearing an air of dejection. The first two were not exclusive of the last by any means, but the variance intrigued him. Something about the man evoked a response deep inside Mycroft.

He hurried across the stark ground to a small stand of trees and then slipped quietly between the thin trunks until he could see Greg.

Greg sat on a round stone of about knee height. He gazed upwards, though it didn’t seem to Mycroft as though he were focusing on anything specific. No star clusters were visible as of yet. Only the brightest stars could be seen in the pale sky. The evening light and moon glow made him appear younger than he had in the daylight. Mycroft hadn’t seen the man this free from doubt and worry since he’d arrived. The reality of random time travel seemed to have confounded him, so it was nice to see him looking a bit more at ease.

The light and dark mix of hair at his temples indicated a certain amount of life experience similar to Mycroft’s own. Greg had large dark brown eyes and a mouth full of straight white teeth. His smiles had been few and far between and had only been directed toward the children. Given the circumstances, Mycroft could scarcely blame him. Perhaps, if he could find some sort of common ground, he could coax a smile or two from the man.

Mycroft retraced his steps and circled around the trees. “Greg?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg tells Laird Mycroft about the "British Government."

Mycroft had kept his voice soft, but Greg still started. His head whipped in Mycroft’s direction and he stood. A small smile played at his mouth, and Mycroft offered him one in return hoping to— Ah, yes. Greg’s mouth stretched a little wider. Genuine and charming. His gaze dipped to Mycroft’s bundle, surprise and perhaps a bit of wistfulness appeared on his otherwise disquieted countenance. That wistfulness intrigued Mycroft. What lack in Greg’s life had caused it?

“Dinner,” Mycroft explained as he himself glanced at the items hanging from his left arm. “I’m afraid I don’t actually get to consume much during these events. Plenty of water posing as ale and enough nibbling to keep going, but no’ much sustenance to speak of. Ye don’t mind if I eat while we talk, do ye?”

“Ah, no. Not at all,” Greg said with a shake of his head.

“There’s a small meadow just ahead.” He gestured with his arm and started walking. Greg fell in step beside him, and Mycroft was pleased to note that Greg was only slightly shorter than he was. The reason it mattered would never come to pass, but brought a slight warmth to Mycroft’s face none-the-less. Best not to allow those thoughts to take root. The man would return to his own time soon enough. Better to get a conversation started. “You were quite hostile toward me when ye thought I was my alter ego. Tell me about him.”

Greg cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that.”

 _Humble, too._ Mycroft appreciated a man who wasn’t afraid to accept correction or take responsibility for himself. “From yer perspective I can understand the desire to lash out; the outburst ’tis forgotten.”

“Great. Thanks.” Greg clasped his hands behind his back and glanced at Mycroft. “You want to know about my Mycroft, huh? Okay. Well. You appear to be the same age, mid-to-late forties, I believe.”

Mycroft canted his head. He very much liked the sound of ‘my Mycroft.’ If only it referred to him and not his future doppelganger.

“Same hair color and hairline, although your hair is much thicker than his. He keeps his hair short, similar to mine, and goes clean-shaven. He wears what we call three-piece suits. He’s quite dapper.”

“Dapper? I take this word to mean dashing?” Despite being a man of few spoken words, Mycroft appreciated a varied vocabulary.

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d personally find him dashing. He’s definitely the height of conservative, tasteful fashion. His clothing is always of the highest quality, both the materials and the workmanship. And the man is always flawlessly put together.”

“Ah, I see.” Mycroft grinned to himself. Greg’s tone belied his words. It sounded as if Greg found the man to be pleasing in appearance, if not in temperament. They walked without speaking for a dozen or so steps, the silence a comfortable one. Mycroft also appreciated a man who didn’t feel the need to chatter all the time. “Does he have some sort of profession? Duties to perform?”

Some sort of half-laugh, half-scoff escaped Greg’s mouth. “Some sort of State secret, that. He says he holds a minor position in the British government, but his brother claims he _is_ the British government. From some of the stunts he’s pulled, I don’t doubt his power is substantial. That’s why I wouldn’t put something like this…” Greg pointed a thumb over his shoulder and toward the castle and the ongoing revelry. “…past him. But like the Great and Powerful Oz, he’s usually pulling the strings from behind a curtain. So him being you or you being him seems a bit suspect and does cast some doubt on my theory.”

“Who is this Great and Powerful Oz?” That seemed a very odd title and name to Mycroft. Unlike any he’d heard. Although some of the world’s rulers claimed the strangest monikers.

A deep chuckle filled the air and burrowed into Mycroft’s chest.

“The answer to that is going to lead to another question or two. Either we go off on that tangent or we continue. Mycroft or Oz?”

“Indeed a tough choice.” Mycroft smiled. As long as he could keep Greg talking, the topic mattered little. Greg’s speech pattern and storytelling flair amused him. “Let’s continue with my namesake.”

“We might have more fun with the Oz discussion even though he’s just a character in a well-known children’s story.”

“We’ll put Oz on the list of future conversations then,” Mycroft said and stopped walking. “Ah, here we are.” The meadow was perhaps thirty meters wide and twice as long. Rocky, craggy ground stretched on the far side of it all the way to the cliffs overlooking the North Sea. Their current position at this end of its expanse was just a little too far away to be able to hear the waves crashing on the rocks below or to smell their salt on the air. Mycroft spread out the blanket and settled on one end. He indicated for Greg to do the same and then set about unpacking his picnic dinner. “Feel free to help yerself. As ye can see, there’s plenty.”

Greg placed one hand on his stomach as he crossed his ankles, bent his knees, and descended to the ground. The other hand swept the fabric of his kilt under his hind end. “Thanks. Maybe later. I found plenty of things to try earlier and I’m afraid I haven’t got much room left.”

Mycroft tore apart a small bread roll and laid a slice of cheese across it. He took a bite and raised a brow at Greg to continue.

“Right. Not much left to tell, really. According to Sherlock, he’s rather controlling. But Sherlock’s a handful himself even at his age, so I don’t know how true that really is. The only things you two seem have in common are that you look alike, you’re both powerful men, and you have brothers named Sherlock.” Greg straightened his legs and then leaned back on outstretched arms. “What else would like to know about?”

“Tell me about yerself,” Mycroft said before taking another bite. Mycroft was terribly curious about the man’s life.

Greg shook his head and made a disbelieving sound. “I’m not interesting in the least.”Greg was feeling a bit abashed if the dip of his head and the wobbly smile he fought was any indication. 

“Perhaps no’ from yer own point of view, but our lives are five hundred years different. And ye have the benefit of history.”

“True enough. All right, let me see…”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg continue their conversation; Greg and Anthea have an interesting exchange as well.

Greg straightened up and tugged a long strand of grass from the ground and proceeded to wind it around his index fingers. “I, uh, I’m a police officer. A detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police in London.”

“I’m guessing that detective inspector is a title that only comes with experience and success.” Mycroft reached over and patted Greg’s knee. “Well done, Greg, well done.”

The pleased expression added to the youthful visage, and Mycroft got the feeling that Greg was rarely praised. A disgrace to be sure. Words from a man he barely knew had lit him up like the moon. Mycroft thoughtfully chewed a slice of apple. As laird, he had learned early on that praise was both a most powerful motivator and a useful tool for getting the best out of people. 

“I believe, based on the short explanation ye gave to the boys, that ye and Corc have something in common. He’s my security chief, in charge of investigating any crime around the castle and in the local villages. The village leaders report to Corc and he reports to me. Perhaps, before we take ye back to the standing stones, ye and he can discuss yer duties and see if ye can share anything helpful.”

Another gratified look crossed Greg’s face. “Yeah, of course. I’d be happy to. He won’t be affronted or anything will he? Some people can get a bit tetchy.”

“I have every confidence ye’ll approach the conversation with tact.” Again, the pride. Mycroft found himself wanting to keep that look on Greg’s handsome face. “Do ye have family?”

Greg’s expression blanked and Mycroft’s stomach sank. _Oh, dear._ Incorrect topic.

“No brothers or sisters. My mum passed several years ago, and my dad’s being cared for in a home for the aged. Barely remembers me.” Greg gazed off into the darkness, looking sad.

“My sympathies, Greg.”

“It is what it is, I guess.” Greg shrugged, glanced at the food, and then returned his gaze to Mycroft’s. “Nothing you can do about it.”

Goodness. Those eyes. Goose bumps formed on Mycroft’s arms and he was forced to take a quick breath. He blinked—what had been the topic? “As true as that is, I can still sympathize. My own mother died in childbirth when I was but a lad of fourteen. Sherlock was seven. The babe, a girl, lived only a few hours. My father died in a hunting accident when I was two and twenty.”

“Now it’s my turn to be sorry.”

“Nay, there’s nothing to be sorry for. My father was a hard, hard man, Greg. Few were sad to see him go.”

“Okay. But it must have been difficult taking on the lairdship when you were still so young.”

“Aye, it was. I had Corc and several other trusted advisers to guide me, however, and I’d long been at my father’s side. I saw what worked with people and what didn’t and tried to rule the clan accordingly. I think I’ve been successful.”

“From what I saw, you’re well respected and loved. That’s no mean feat.”

Mycroft inclined his head, his own pride inflating his chest. “Thank ye fer saying so. No’ many people would think to do as much. They forget the laird is human like everyone else, and it can be a bit lonely.”

“What about Anthea?”

“She’s a godsend, but she’s still just a woman. Her responsibilities are as chatelaine and as mother to our children.”

“Her _responsibilities?_ You make her sound like hired help. She’s your wife. ” Greg suddenly sounded bleak.

Mycroft had hit a nerve. “Have women changed so much in the last five hundred years then?”

Greg laughed although it wasn’t from amusement. “Have they ever…and that conversation would take longer than the story of Oz. But I don’t think the role of wife—helpmate and confidant—has changed much since Biblical times. Isn’t your spouse the one person you should be able to lean on and count on to have your back?”

There was something to Greg’s outburst that Mycroft wanted to explore. That underlying anger he’d heard was coming from somewhere.

“Ye must remember that most marriages in this world, at my level of standing, are about alliances and protection, no’ love and happiness.”

“Right. Okay, so it’s not a love match. But the woman is probably the daughter or the sister of a laird already, right? She’d have a good idea of what being a laird entails. Her responsibilities are to support her husband in his job. To make sure his needs are met. All of them. Just as he makes sure to meet all of hers.”

Mycroft sobered. Greg hadn’t mentioned a wife, but it sounded as though he’d been married at some point. Mycroft doubted he had remained so since a wife hadn’t been disclosed. That explained his fervency. From the little Mycroft had learned and observed, Greg seemed extremely loyal and would value that trait in his relationship above almost all others. Whether it was just its loss or whether it had been absent in the marriage, Mycroft didn’t know, and for reasons surpassing logic, it pained him that Greg seemed to have been wounded in such a way.

Mycroft spoke softly. “Yer notion of marriage is an honorable and noble one, Greg. I hope that one day ye find that person.”

Sorrowful brown eyes turned to Mycroft. “I don’t know that everyone gets a first chance at finding that person, Mycroft, much less a second one.”

He had no explanation, but Mycroft suddenly feared he was looking at his only chance. A chance he had no business taking.

~*~

Greg descended the stairs slowly. His knees were not happy with him, but what could he do?

His conversation the previous evening with Mycroft had saddened him. For a man in Mycroft’s position, it was hard to know who was friend and who was foe. Allegiances could change so quickly. That’s where wives were supposed to come in. But even wives were susceptible to changing alliances, weren’t they?

When Greg reached the dining room in search of breakfast, only Anthea remained at the large dining table, an open ledger on one side. Several dirty trenchers sat on the other side of the table. The tapestry had been rolled up and the shutters on the windows opened. Fresh air and the sounds of animals and people alike wafted in.

“I’m sorry…am I late? Not having a clock or a mobile, I’m little thrown off.”

“Nay. Mycroft was up early. Many of our kinsman are departing today, and the boys are out and about as well, saying farewells to their cousins.”

“Your family or Mycroft’s?”

“I have two sisters who also married into Clan Holmes. They live several hours’ ride away.”

“Nice. That’s nice.” Greg took a seat at the empty place to her right. He picked up the pewter pitcher and glanced inside. “No coffee here in 1513, huh?”

She shook her head, glossy brown curls bouncing with the movement. “What’s coffee?”

“It’s a hot beverage made from ground coffee beans and hot water.”

She made a face. “Beans and water don’t sound appetizing at all,” she said and smiled. “But, nay, no coffee here in Scotland yet, I’m afraid. Warm milk, if ye like? I can ask Muira to fetch some.” Anthea reached for the bell on the table in front of her trencher.

“That’s okay, no need. I’m fine with ale.” He poured some into the goblet and loaded his plate with golden brown oatcakes, drizzling them with honey. “How about bacon?”

“What is bacon?”

“It’s delicious.”

Anthea grinned again and Greg laughed.

“Bacon is from a pig. I don’t know which part, but usually it’s got meat and a bit of fat, and it’s cured with salt or smoke, and then cut into strips.” Greg used his hands and fingers to indicate dimensions.

“Oh, aye, we call that collops. I don’t think Cook made any today…too many mouths to feed for that. Perhaps tomorrow. I’ll put in a special request for ye.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Mycroft expects me to care for our house guests, to make sure they have what they need.”

Greg almost slipped out of his chair. The similarity to his and Mycroft’s conversation from last evening was a bit disconcerting. Or perhaps fortuitous. He didn’t know this Mycroft well, but he seemed nice enough. Didn’t everyone deserve a chance to have that one person? “What about what he needs?”

“Pardon?” Concern and surprise and perhaps a bit of anger colored her cheeks and brought a hardness to her gaze.

“Listen, Mrs. Holmes, Anthea…about Mycroft…”

Greg glanced around but saw no one. He leaned towards her a little and lowered his voice. “I don’t know anything about your marriage. Mycroft didn’t say anything, I swear. He loves you and knows that what you do is important and that he couldn’t be an effective laird without you, but he seems…lonely to me. I don’t know why. And I know that it’s really none of my business. I know as laird he probably doesn’t have many true friends, but it seems to me that if anyone could help him, it’d be you.”

Anthea looked toward the hallway, in the direction of the baileys where Mycroft most likely was at the moment, a contemplative expression now on her face. “He is lonely, Maighstir Lestrade, and I do ken why.” She looked back at him with sad eyes. “But it isn’t something I can help him with.”

Greg straightened up, not sure what to say. He just nodded dumbly and shoved an oatcake in his mouth.

She patted his hand and rose. “If ye’ll excuse me.”

He stood as she left and dropped back to his seat once she’d gone. Bloody hell. The way she’d looked at him when she’d said she couldn’t help Mycroft—what was that? Like he could, somehow, help Mycroft?

How the hell could he do that when he would be going home in a few days?


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is able to help bring an arsonist to justice.

Greg passed through the courtyard and the inner bailey to the outer bailey in search of Corc. Hugh had given him instructions for finding the man. Well, Corc could find him at the stable. It seemed the likely spot to start riding lessons.

The occasional wagon still rolled through the bailey, but perhaps only a dozen tents and wagons remained in the field beyond, where there’d been more than a hundred the day before. Three blackened circles marked the locations of the fires and thin wisps of gray smoke still drifted from the charred rubble.

Greg perused the various structures that ran along the outer bailey wall. One of them was supposed to be a stable. And sure enough, he spotted a handful of horses in various stages of tending. A couple of young lads wheeled a barrow of horse manure out of the open door and toward the main gate. They were probably headed for some sort of rubbish pile or a compost heap. He’d wager the latter.

A large wagon rattled into the bailey and Greg slowed as it passed. He nodded to the driver and smiled at the woman sitting beside him. Three little faces grinned at him from the back. He waved and the girls giggled. 

He continued across the dusty expanse and his heart stopped for a beat. He ducked behind a horse and looked back. _Shite._ It was the bloke who’d set fire to that cottage and had knocked him out. God, in his outrage and confusion over Mycroft and time traveling, he’d completely forgotten about that poor family, who now, it seemed, really had been burnt out of their home. Could Greg get justice for them? He stopped in his tracks. At the time, he’d wondered at being the only person at this odd scene for a re-enactment. Him being the sole witness to that event—what seemed to now be an actual crime—was just more proof that he’d traveled through time. _Christ on a cracker._ He scrubbed his scalp with his fingers. He needed to find Corc and find him asap.

Greg ducked between people and horses and dodged children and dogs as he made his way to the stable.

He entered the structure and called out, “Corc? Corc, are you in here?” Though not too loudly. Of course, the chances of Pyro hearing him above the din were small. But still, Greg didn’t want to chance the man becoming alerted to his imminent arrest.

“Aye.”

With a sinking stomach, Greg turned around to see Burly Bloke. “Corc?”

“Aye.”

“Oh, bloody hell. Really?”

Corc looked perplexed, as if he didn’t recognize Greg. “You know who I am, right? The one you tied up and brought to Mycr—to the laird a few days ago?”

He nodded. “Maighstir Lestrade, aye?”

“Yes, that’s right. Greg, you can call me Greg. But listen, there’s a man out there.” Greg pointed into the bailey. “He burnt down a cottage the other day.”

Corc frowned. “Who?”

Greg moved to the doorway and looked to the last place he’d seen Pyro. Corc stood beside him, waiting. Aw, hell, Pyro wasn’t there. Greg scanned the immediate vicinity of the man’s last known location, increasing the search in concentric circles until he spotted the dark head. He pointed. “There. Dark brown hair, 170 centimeters tall, dirty tunic, and torn kilt.”

Corc pushed past Greg and strode through the crowd. He grabbed the man by his upper arm before he started talking to him. Greg could barely hear Corc from this distance, though he wouldn’t have been able to understand him even if he had been standing right next to him.

The man chattered back at Corc, but Greg couldn’t tell if he was protesting his guilt or claiming his innocence. Greg had no idea if the family who’d lost their home belonged to the Holmes clan. If they did, there was no way to know if they’d been here for the Midsummer’s event. Seemed fishy that the perp had shown his face though. Since Greg was the only available witness at this point, he hurried after Corc.

He caught up with them in Mycroft’s big office, with Mycroft holding court. The perp stood to the side, hands tied behind him. His ankles were bound too and attached to a ring in the floor. If the man had been innocent, Greg might have questioned the overkill.

“Ah, Greg, Corc’s telling me ye identified this man as one who burnt down a cottage.”

Greg nodded. “The day I traveled. When I came to, I had no idea which way to go, so I just took my best guess and started walking. Anyway, I finally saw smoke—but you know, just from the chimney—so I headed for it, knowing I was going to find people. But as I got closer, the smoke got thicker and blacker. I started running and soon saw the cottage on fire. When I reached the yard, your prisoner was holding back another man, the owner of the cottage I suspect, while two others held onto a teen-aged boy. A woman and two young children were under a nearby tree, just watching, crying and scared.”

“Thank ye,” Mycroft said to him.

Turning to Corc, he conferred in Gaelic and then spoke to the rest of the assembled men. From the length of the conversation, Mycroft must have been relaying Greg’s testimony. There were many nods and ayes. Mycroft spoke again to Corc who nodded. Pyro looked pissed off and started blabbering. Corc issued some sort of command and he shut up immediately. Two other men came forward, officers or deputies, if the uniform look of their clothing meant anything, and took custody of the prisoner. They hauled him down the narrow corridor and out of sight.

“Where are they taking him?” Greg asked.

“He’ll be kept in the oubliette until Corc can locate the family and the cottage to confirm yer account. After that, he’ll be executed.”

Greg swallowed. It was a harsh sentence. But this was 1513 and Greg well knew it. Mycroft’s clan had to have confidence that their laird would provide swift and harsh justice to deter others from similar crimes. Greg wasn’t opposed to the concept in principle, but the reality of it was a little more difficult for him to deal with. 

“I have nay choice,” Mycroft said softly.

The room had cleared and it was just the two of them.

Greg stared blankly at the door everyone had exited through. “I know. I understand. I do. As you said last night, I have the benefit of history, but the future justice system is a kinder gentler place most of the time. And that’s my world. So this is just a reality check I guess.”

“I hope ye dinnae think less of me.”

Greg looked at him and saw a vulnerable man, not an implacable laird. “No, of course I don’t.” Greg shook his head for emphasis and placed a hand on Mycroft’s forearm. He remembered the Mycroft of last night. The sensitive, lonely man who needed a friend. Greg let go of any remaining misgivings and squeezed his arm lightly. “Those people needed justice and I’m certainly glad they’ll get it.”

“And they’ll get help. I promise,” Mycroft said and smiled, and his eyes shone a bit brighter and bluer. Greg’s breath hitched. He’d done that. 

“Good, I’m glad. Now…I’m supposed to be learning to ride a horse. I was on my way to do that when I saw the perp.”

Furrows creased Mycroft’s forehead. “Perp? Ye mean the prisoner?”

“Short for perpetrator, yes, the guilty party.” Greg chuckled and shook his head.

“Ah. I can never get enough of yer words. As for the riding lessons, I think Corc is going to be a bit busy for the rest of the afternoon. I suspect your lessons will have to wait for the morrow.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft escorts Greg back to the standing stones for Greg's return trip to the 21st century.

Greg and the others crested the hill and Mycroft called the party to a halt. Mycroft had ridden by Greg’s side most of the trip, peppering him with questions. He’d said he’d wanted to learn as much as he could while he had the chance. Greg hadn’t minded overmuch as it kept his mind off his arse.

He’d spent stretches of time in the mornings and in the afternoons of the last two days learning how to ride properly, as well as how to instruct the horse with both physical cues as well as verbal ones. Corc had been the hands-on instructor, but Mycroft had always been close by to provide translation services where there were gaps in Corc’s knowledge. It hadn’t been as embarrassing as it could have been. They’d given him a gentle and obedient horse, and he’d kept his seat. He wouldn’t win any races, but he could get where he needed to go.

And he’d gotten to where he’d needed to go.

The sun was high in the sky and there was little breeze to dry the sheen of moisture that now coated his forehead. Riding horses all day everyday was hard work.

Greg pulled in a deep breath and stared at the nine stones that had caused all this trouble. He glanced at Mycroft. “Let’s do this. I’m sure you’ll be just as glad to get me out of your hair once and for all as I will be to get home.”

Mycroft’s smile was tinged with something Greg couldn’t quite name. Regret? Sadness? Sympathy? He nodded and called, “Hee ya.” The horses cantered down the slope and across the meadow, finally coming to a stop once more. Greg slid from his saddle and almost collapsed. None of Mycroft’s men, nor Mycroft, offered any help, but they didn’t laugh. Mycroft dismounted as well.

They’d been riding for four and a half days straight, and for a guy who’d barely learnt to ride, it was hell on horseback. His arse felt chafed, his head throbbed, his thighs ached, and his bits were exhausted from not only living in a nervous expectation of disaster, but from dangling without support for the last week. He’d be just as happy to never set his arse in a saddle again. That was by far the worst aspect of 1513 for him. Give him the Tube any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

Mycroft and Greg handed their reins over to Corc. Mycroft spoke to Corc for several minutes before he and his men took off. 

Mycroft watched until they disappeared from view. He started walking toward the standing stones and Greg fell into step beside him. They entered the circle and stopped.

“Do ye remember which stone it was?”

“The largest one I think, but five hundred years of weathering… And the trees there…” He pointed. “…they’re youngish now. In my time, they were twice as high and much larger in diameter.”

They stood there as silence filled the space between them. Greg wanted to go home. He most certainly did, but now that his return was imminent he felt a tiny bit bereft at the thought. This Mycroft, this laird, this man—he touched a place in Greg that had very much needed touching and now he had to walk away. 

_Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all._

Greg snorted. Where had that cliche come from? He couldn’t be in love with Mycroft. He barely knew the man. Plus he was married and off limits regardless.

Mycroft’s glance skimmed the stones before he softly cleared his throat. “Here we be. I have been verra honored to ken ye, Greg Lestrade. I thank ye for sharing so many amazing and wonderful details about yer time.”Greg fought the tingling at the bridge of his nose and held out a hand. “I’m honored to know you, Laird Holmes. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you and I apologize for being such a giant pain in your arse.”

“Ach. It sounds as if haphazard time travel tapered off at some point. I understand why ye were so disbelieving.”

“Thank you for your hospitality too. I’d return your tartan, but…”

Mycroft smiled knowingly. “Indeed.”

“It’ll certainly be a unique souvenir.”

“That it will.”

“Well…”

“Go,” Mycroft said softly. “Touch the stones. Each one in turn.”

“Right.” Greg nodded and headed for the nearest one. 

He skimmed his hands across its surface, which was more textured than he remembered, but then again…five hundred years. He closed his eyes for a moment, but felt nothing. After another few moments, he moved to the next one. Same lack of noise and wind. He approached the third one. Still nothing. Maybe he needed to be more patient at each one. He left his hands in place and his eyes closed for a bit longer. Not a sound, not a stirring of air. _What if this didn’t work?_ A bevy of disgruntled bees buzzed in his stomach. It had to.

He glanced at Mycroft, standing at the center of the circle, who nodded and then gestured with a lift of his chin for Greg to continue.

Greg’s heart fluttered as he neared the fourth stone. Relief coursed through him, warming him. He placed his hands on the surface, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let it out. Oh, good. This stone was warm like he remembered. He waited. Breathed in and out deeply. But there was nothing. He swallowed against the thickening of his throat, the churning of his stomach. What was he going to do if this didn’t work? He slapped the stone and pushed away from it. He wasn’t going to think like that.

Though Greg didn’t look at Mycroft directly, he noted that he was still where Greg had left him in the center of the circle. He appreciated the support.

Greg repeated his little procedure at the fifth stone, the sixth, the seventh, going colder and colder inside with each failure. Two stones left. His hands trembled now and his knees were going to collapse at any moment. 

The eighth stone was the largest, both in height and circumference. _Please please please…_

This stone was warmer than the others too. Heat suffused his hands while a cool breeze rushed up his arms and over his neck making him shiver. _Yes, this was it!_ Thank God. He was going home. His stomach lurched. He wanted to yell one last good bye to Mycroft, be he didn’t dare make a move and break the spell. 

The sound of rustling leaves surrounded him and he swayed with the force of the wind. He didn’t know if he should fight against it or let it sweep him up. A high-pitched keening sound brought his shoulders up as he fought to protect his ears. He scrunched his eyes against the pain of ice picks to his eardrums. He was just about to cry out when the sound morphed into the deep bellow of a freight train. 

The air pressure changed and he felt as if his whole body were being compressed. He struggled to breathe, gasping for air, and then he heard his name being called.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg makes it to the standing stones.

Dark shadows hurtled past Greg and he tumbled around in a whirlwind of warmth and moisture.

A far away voice calling to him penetrated the whooshing din. There was something familiar about it, something warm, something enticing. His gut said to move toward it, but his mind screamed no. Somewhere deep inside him, he knew he needed to listen to his head. He just wasn’t quite sure how to make that happen. The voice seemed to come to him from all directions.

He knew where he needed to go though. London, ultimately, but the standing stones outside of Dumfries were his first stop, so he focused his thoughts there. He imagined the meadow where he’d sat to watch the dancers. Then he pictured the stones and the trees. The little green lights. The twilit sky.

Then he pictured his hotel room and the belongings he’d left there. He pictured Dumfries’ cityscape and the train station.

The fog thinned, grew lighter, the air calmed, the voice grew louder, became clearer.

“Greg, are ye all right? Be ye hurt?”

Greg’s eyes popped open to find Mycroft’s face hovering over him, the brilliant blue sky a backdrop to concerned gray-blue eyes and a furrowed brow.

_Oh no no no no no!_ Coldness poured over Greg like a bucket of ice water. He came to his knees, his head throbbing mildly, while Mycroft scrambled back and away from his sudden movement in order to avoid knocking their heads together. Greg scanned his immediate surroundings, spinning in a circle on his hands and knees. Once, twice, three times, looking farther and farther afield with every revolution. Young trees, no roads, no power poles, no mobile towers.

Oh, God, he was still in 1513.

He hung his head, scrunched his eyes closed; his breathing was ragged and harsh as if someone were squeezing his lungs. This couldn’t be happening. 

Greg snapped his head up and skewered Mycroft with his eyes. “You said this would work.”

Mycroft shook his head slowly. “Nay. I never said such a thing.” His voice was soft. “I said I would bring ye here.”

In his brain, Greg replayed every pertinent conversation they’d had as best he could. He gave his head a hard shake and issued a pained cry when he came up empty. “Then why? Why did you bring me here? You wasted your time, your resources. _Why?_ ” he cried.

“Because ye needed to come. Ye needed to try to get home. I could have told ye it wouldn’t work, but would ye have believed me?” 

Greg pressed his lips together, before shaking his head. “Probably not.”

“Ye came on Midsummer’s Eve. We haven’t a had a Midsummer’s visitor in decades. Usually we just get them with the full moon. All records indicate that a traveler can only return via the same means they arrived. In yer case, the standing stones, aye, but only at the next equinox or solstice. I’ll bring ye back at the full moon, however, if it is yer wish.”

“But I’m not going to get home then, am I?”

“’Tis highly unlikely, Greg.”

All the fight, all the drive went out of Greg and he collapsed on the grass, arms crossed above his head and his cheek resting on his forearm, looking at Mycroft.

Mycroft remained quiet and kept his distance.

“So…I’m not going home. Not for another—” He did the math in his head. “—two and a half months. I doubt anyone even realizes I’m missing yet.”

“No?”

“I was only in Dumfries a day. And let’s say I was out of things for a day when I traveled from 2015 to 1513. I was at Bassendean for four days. We rode for five days to get here. That adds up to eleven days. My scheduled holiday was for a fortnight, so no one’s going to miss me for another three days.

“And that’s assuming there’s no time offset.”

A deep sadness welled up inside of him and he buried his face in the crook of his elbow. He took deep breaths trying to stave off the tears that would solve nothing. But _dammit_ , like a great big mama’s boy, he wanted to go home. He sucked in a breath and let out a shuddering sob. He let himself cry for several minutes and then hauled in a cleansing breath. He wiped his face and looked up at Mycroft. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. ‘Tis honored I am that ye trusted me with yer sadness and grief. ‘Tis I who am sorry that ye cannae get home.” He got to his feet and held out a hand.

Greg sat up and placed his hand Mycroft’s. Long tapered fingers closed around his hand. A tremor ran through him and he looked into Mycroft’s eyes. Mycroft looked a little stunned, as though he’d felt it too, whatever it was. 

Mycroft took one step backward and tugged Greg to his feet. The momentum wasn’t much, but it carried Greg forward into Mycroft’s chest. His hands came up to clasp Greg’s upper arms, the imprints of his fingertips searing through the thin fabric of Greg’s shirtsleeves. They stared at one another for long moments, the gray blue of Mycroft’s normally placid eyes suddenly a storm-tossed sea. Greg’s breath shallowed. Mycroft blinked and then crushed his mouth to Greg’s. A groan of surprise escaped him. _Oh, God, they were kissing._ Mycroft took advantage of Greg’s now-parted lips and canted his head sideways to fit their mouths tighter together. His tongue slid across Greg’s lips and Greg shuddered in base want. He gripped the folds of Mycroft’s kilt at his waist and held him close, opening his mouth wider and deepening the kiss. He never wanted it to end. Their breathing came in harsh inhales and exhales as their tongues slipped and slid against each other. He slid his hands around to Mycroft’s back, clasping him closer still, and he whimpered at the feel of Mycroft pressed against him from chest to knees. As if they were two missing pieces of a puzzle.

A sharp whistle cut through the air. Mycroft stiffened and delicately ended the kiss, but rested his forehead against Greg’s. Greg wanted to cry at the interruption.

“My apolo—”

“Don’t you dare,” Greg growled and stepped back. “Now send your answering call.” Mycroft looked as wrecked as Greg felt, which was something at least. He turned away and wiped an arm across his eyes and mouth, and then bent at the waist, bracing his hands on his knees as he got his breathing under control. _Fuck._ That had been…better than…

Mycroft’s answering trill sounded behind him.

“Did anyone see that? Are you in danger?”

“Nay, Greg. Corc and the men, there’s a cave close by—they were preparing it for our stay. I ken this would be hard for ye and I told them no’ to appear unless I responded in the affirmative.”

Horse hooves thudded as the group, with Corc in the lead, crested the small hill and cantered towards them. Mycroft touched his shoulder and herded him between two of the stones and toward the riders.

The men exchanged greetings and conversation with their laird for a few minutes.

“They’ve caught dinner,” Mycroft said to Greg, “and Earc is guarding the camp and the meal while the rest of them came to fetch us.”

Greg lips turned up at the corners, but that’s about all he could manage. He felt mostly hollow inside. But also amazed. The man had kissed him. And it’d been bloody brilliant.

“We can double up with two of the men or we can walk.”

Greg’s arse throbbed in complaint and he groaned. In the aftermath of his failed attempt to get home, not to mention that kiss, he’d forgotten how sore his arse actually was. “Considering I’m looking at another five days in the saddle, I’ll walk if it’s all the same to you.”

Mycroft chuckled and relayed Greg’s sentiment. Everyone laughed in good natured amusement and took off at a gallop toward camp. Corc rode on ahead, giving them privacy, but he stayed in view for them to use as a guide to their temporary lodgings.

“About before…” Greg half-turned, waved a hand back toward the stones.

“Let’s leave that particular conversation for another day, Greg.”

Greg opened his mouth to speak, but Mycroft held up a hand.

“’Tis no’ that I don’t wish to speak of it, I do, I promise, but ye’ve had a great shock today. Let’s return to Bassendean. Let’s recover from our travels and then, when we’ve both had time to consider, then we’ll talk.”

Mycroft was right. There was a lot going on inside of him. Disappointment. Anger. Shock. Confusion. Worry. Want. Had he mentioned confusion? What about want? And what about the tiny part of him that was glad to have more time with this Mycroft?

But now that his adrenaline levels were falling, the throbbing and twinging going on throughout his body made it difficult to think about anything other than a hot bath and twenty-four hours of sleep, much less a kiss that had rocked him to his boots.

He nodded. “Yeah, all right. You’re right.”

“Ach, of course I’m right,” Mycroft said and chuckled. “I’m the laird. Let’s go home now.”

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of part one.
> 
> Part two is in the works, at least 2/3 done, but probably more like 3/4. It's still needs a beta reader, so if anyone's interested, leave a comment.
> 
> Thanks for going on this journey with me. I had such a blast writing it.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Story notes:**  
>  Ten meters=@ 32 feet  
> Three meters=@10 feet  
> Five meters=@16 feet
> 
> 2018-03-28--I know this has been out there for a super long time, but I do intend to finish part two at some point. Life has morphed and evolved since I wrote this and started part two, so getting around to finishing part two is a little more challenging than it used to be.


End file.
